By  Cynthia  Stockley 
Poppy 

The  Story  of  &  South  African  Girl 

The  Claw 


or  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


'  .  .  .  THAT  STATELY  MADONNA  BOUGUEREAU  PAINTED,  WITH 
HANDS  UPRAISED  AND  GREAT  EYES  FULL  OF  SORROW  FOR  THE  FATE  OF 
WOMEN. ' '  (Seepage  388) 

FROM    THE   PAINTING   BY   BOUGUEREAU   IN   THE   LUXEMBOURG   GALLERY 

From  a  photograph  by  Alinari 


THE  CLAW 


BY 

CYNTHIA  STOCKLEY 

Author  of  "Poppy"  etc. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

3be  ftnfcfeerbocfeet  press 

1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 

BY 
CYNTHIA   STOCKLEY 


Published,  May,  ign 
Reprinted,  May,  rgit 


Cbe  Imfcfcerbocfetr  pteM,  Wew  Botk 


So 
MY  OWN  LAND 


2133058 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  SKIES  CALL                                        i 

II.  THE  RIVER  CALLS  ....       29 

III.  CATS'  CALLS 54 

IV.  THE  SUN  CALLS      ....       82 
V.  THE  HEART  CALLS          ...       98 

VI.    LOVE  CALLS 118 

VII.    WAR  CALLS 150 

VIII.  FAITH  CALLS          .         .         .         .169 

IX.  DESPAIR  CALLS       .         .         .         .196 

X.  CHARITY  CALLS      .         .         .         .213 

XI.  THE  CHILDREN  CALL       .         .         .     227 

XII.    DUTY  CALLS 341 

XIII.  DEFEAT  CALLS       ....     261 

XIV.  THE  WITCH  CALLS  281 


vi  Contents 

PART  II 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XV.    WHAT  AUSTRALIAN  GOLD  ACHIEVED.  301 

XVI.    WHAT  A  MAY  DAY  SAW  .         .  .329 

XVII.    WHAT  A  JEWELLER  MADE        .  .  339 

XVIII.    WHAT  THE  DAWN  HEARD         .  .  355 

XIX.    WHAT  A  GOAD  PERFORMED      .  .  366 

XX.    WHAT  A  VULTURE  TOLD  .         .  .  393 

XXI.    WHAT    THE    KNUCKLE-BONE   OF  A 

SHEEP  DID       .         .         .  .  411 

XXII.    WHAT  THE  HILLS  HID     .         .  .  433 


'« Weep  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him,  but  weep 
for  him  that  goeth  away,  .  .  .  and  shall  be  seen  no  more 
in  his  own  country." 


PART  I 

'Lived  a  woman  wonderful 
(May  the  Lord  amend  her) 

Neither  simple,  kind,  nor  true, 
But  her  pagan  beauty  drew 
Christian  gentlemen  a  few 
Hotly  to  attend  her. 

Christian  gentlemen  a  few 
From  Berwick  unto  Dover; 

For  she  was  South  Africa, 
And  she  was  South  Africa, 
She  was  our  South  Africa, 
Africa  all  over!  " 


Kipling. 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  SKIES  CALL 

"It  works  in  me  like  madness,  dear, 
To  bid  me  say  good-bye, 
For  the  seas  call  and  the  stars  call, 
And  oh!  the  call  of  the  sky." 

HOUR  after  hour  Zeederberg's  post-cart  and 
all  that  therein  was  straggled  deviously 
across  the  landscape,  bumping  along  the  rutty 
road,  creaking  and  craking,  swaggling  from  side 
to  side  behind  the  blocky  hoofs  of  eight  mules. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  heat  was 
intense,  but  the  sun  lay  in  the  west  at  last,  and 
tiny  flecks  of  cloud  in  the  turquoise  sky  were 
transforming  themselves  into  torn  strips  of 
golden  fleece.  The  bare  bleak  kops  of  Bechuana- 
land  were  softened  by  amethystine  tints,  and 
the  gaunt  bush  took  feathery  outlines  against 
the  horizon. 

The  driver  of  the  post-cart,  a  big  yellow  Cape 
boy  with  oystery  eyes,  took  a  long  swig  from  a 
black  bottle  which  he  was  ready  to  affirm  con- 
tained cold  tea,  though  the  storekeepers  who 

3 


4  The  Claw 

filled  it  at  every  stopping  place  referred  to  its 
contents  variously  as  dap,  Cape  smoke,  and  greased 
lightning.  Afterwards  he  lovingly  bestowed  the 
bottle  under  his  seat,  cracked  his  whip,  and 
shouted  in  a  ferocious  voice: 

Hirrrrie-yoh  dappers! 

I  sat  behind  the  driver,  on  the  floor  of  the 
cart  crammed  amongst  cushions  and  rugs  and 
parcels  and  mail-bags  and  luggage,  aching  pas- 
sionately in  every  bone,  deadly  weary,  and  very 
cross.  For  when  you  are  extremely  tall  it  is 
not  all  rapture  to  sit  for  hour  after  hour  with 
your  length  hunched  beneath  you  like  an  idol 
of  Buddha.  And  when  you  are  thin,  not  bonily 
thin  but  temperamentally  slender,  you  don't  care 
for  parcels  bumping  into  your  curves  as  if  you 
were  made  of  wood,  and  mail-bags  apparently 
stuffed  with  flints  and  jagged  rocks  piercing 
through  the  thickest  cushions  into  your  very 
marrow. 

Hirrrrie-yoh  dappers!  .  .  .  Slaagte.  .  .  . 
Verdommeder  skepsels!  .  .  . 

Heaven  knows  what  terrible  significance  was 
contained  in  these  cabalistic  words,  but  the 
eight  mules  immediately  broke  into  a  shambling 
run,  the  post-cart  swaggled  from  side  to  side, 
the  mail-bags  hit  me  and  stabbed  me,  and  clouds 
of  fine  dust  arose,  wrapping  us  round  in  a  smother- 
ing fog.  Five  minutes  later  the  mules  resumed 
their  usual  slouch,  the  fog  subsided  into  a  feathery 
mist,  and  all  was  as  before.  Slowly  and  deviously 


The  Skies  Call  5 

we  straggled  across  the  landscape.  I  tried  for 
the  hundredth  time  to  arrange  my  rugs  into  the 
semblance  of  a  nest,  and  for  the  hundredth  time 
failed  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  There  was 
no  rest  or  comfort  anywhere  in  that  post-cart. 
In  spite  of  my  chiffon  veil  I  could  feel  the  fine 
road-dust  powdering  thickly  on  to  my  charming 
face.  Mosquitoes  sped  down  silently  from  strong- 
holds in  the  hooped  tent  of  the  cart  and  without 
even  a  warning  serenade  took  long  draughts  of 
my  nice  young  blood  through  the  linen  sleeves 
of  my  blouse.  A  hundred  grass  ticks  having 
at  various  times  of  outspan  made  convenient 
entry  through  open-work  brown  silk  stockings, 
chewed  at  my  ankles  causing  exquisite  irritation 
not  to  be  assuaged  by  a  violent  application  of 
finger-nails. 

The  breeze,  if  heavy  turgid  masses  of  air  dis- 
placed by  the  movement  of  the  cart  might  be 
so  called,  conveyed  to  my  face  the  steam  arising 
from  the  mules  and  the  extraordinarily  pungent 
odour  of  native  that  emanated  from  the  driver. 
It  was  something  to  be  thankful  for  that  the 
latter  was  so  busy  with  the  mules  and  his  black 
bottle  that  he  did  not  often  turn  his  big  cafe-au- 
/a^-coloured  countenance  to  me,  for  when  he  did 
there  was  something  so  revolting  in  the  spirituous 
odour  of  his  breath  and  the  expression  of  his 
oystery  eyes  that  I  could  feel  my  scalp  stirring 
as  though  my  hair  had  suddenly  been  brushed  the 
wrong  way.  At  such  moments  I  was  extremely 


6  The  Claw 

glad  that  I  had  a  small  but  business-like  Colt 
slung  conspicuously  from  my  waist-belt,  and 
that  in  the  boudoir  of  a  little  old  hunting-box 
in  Meath  there  were  to  be  found  three  rather 
nice  silver  cups  (probably  all  filled  with  late 
roses)  awarded  to  me  by  various  ladies'  shooting 
clubs  for  making  the  highest  aggregate  of  bulls- 
eyes.  It  was  at  such  moments  too  that,  good 
shot  or  not,  I  realised  that  I  had  been  utterly 
foolish  and  reckless  to  adventure  forth  alone  and 
unprotected  upon  this  wild  journey  into  Mashona- 
land. 

At  six  o'clock  the  heat  was  still  intense,  and  the 
western  sky  resembled  a  vast  frameless  picture 
daubed  in  primitive  colours,  slashed  and  gashed 
with  reds  and  yellows.  An  hour  later  the  sun 
shot  past  the  horizon  like  a  red-hot  cannon- 
ball  aimed  at  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  for 
a  short  time  the  land  was  suffused  in  wilder 
lights  of  orange,  and  the  skies  seemed  streaked 
with  blood.  Then  suddenly  the  heat  was  over, 
the  flare  died  out  of  the  picture,  the  far-off  kops 
turned  a  faint  pink  colour,  and  the  grimness  of 
the  bush  was  blurred  in  a  drapery  of  purple 
chiffon.  At  once  night  unsheathed  her  velvet 
wings,  and  darkness  fell  in  dim  purple  veils 
embroidered  with  silver  stars.  Some  subtle  scent 
as  of  flowering  trees  growing  by  a  river  blew 
through  the  tent  of  the  cart.  The  world  seemed 
filled  with  gracious  dimness  and  made  up  of 
illimitable  lovely  space.  An  indescribable  feeling 


The  Skies  Call  7 

of  happy  freedom  filled  my  heart.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  the  lungs  of  my  soul  drew  breath 
and  expanded  as  they  had  never  done  in  any 
land  before.  It  was  a  sensation  that  came  to 
me  every  morning  when  I  saw  the  sun  turn  a 
gaunt  country  into  a  blue  and  golden  world; 
and  every  evening  when  the  sun  fell  and  the  land 
was  wrapt  in  purple  and  silver  vestments.  It 
seemed  to  me  then  to  be  possible  to  disregard 
the  discomforts  of  the  day,  and  to  forget  what 
terrors  the  night  might  hold,  by  just  succumb- 
ing to  the  charm  and  the  magic  of  this  won- 
derful great  empty  land.  I  was  content  to  be  in 
Africa! 

Leaning  back,  my  head  against  a  mail-bag, 
my  eyes  half  closed,  I  found  myself  suddenly 
remembering  a  brown-faced  man  with  vivid  blue 
eyes,  with  whom  I  had  once  danced  at  the  Vice- 
regal Lodge  on  the  night  of  my  "coming-out," 
and  who  had  talked  to  me  about  the  lure  of 
Africa,  saying  that  it  was  worse  than  the  call 
of  the  East.  He  had  spoken  of  Africa  as  she, 
and  with  a  mingled  hatred  and  love  that  conjured 
up  to  my  mind  a  vision  of  some  false,  beautiful 
vampire,  who  dragged  men  to  her  and  fastened 
her  claws  into  their  hearts  for  ever. 

"It 's  a  brute  of  a  country!"  he  said.  "Quite 
unfit  to  live  in.  Thank  God  to  be  back  to  civilisa- 
tion again."  But  a  moment  later  he  was  talking 
of  the  veldt  as  tenderly  as  a  lover  might  talk 
of  the  woman  he  loves.  I  remembered  being 


8  The  Claw 

intensely  interested  and  fascinated  at  the  time, 
but  it  was  in  the  middle  of  my  first  real  ball,  and 
it  was  also  my  eighteenth  birthday  and  the 
occasion  of  my  first  serious  proposal,  and  I  had 
had,  very  naturally,  a  great  many  other  ab- 
sorbing things  to  think  about.  Moreover,  the 
dance  with  the  blue-eyed  man  had  come  to  an 
end,  I  had  been  whirled  off  by  some  one  else, 
and  had  never  seen  him  again.  Such  blue  burn- 
ing eyes,  set  in  such  a  dark  burnt  face!  What 
added  more  strangely  to  his  vivid  appearance 
were  two  tiny  blue  points  of  turquoise  stuck  in 
his  ears. 

"Shades  of  George  Washington!"  I  said  to 
myself.  "Can  the  man  be  an  Indian — or  a 
Hindoo?"  But  who  ever  heard  of  an  Indian 
or  a  Hindoo  having  blue  eyes?  Just  as  I  was 
going  to  ask  him,  in  the  frank  way  that  always 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  best  and  simplest  method 
of  getting  to  the  heart  of  things,  why  he  wore 
them,  I  found  him  looking  with  such  a  deep, 
strange  glance  at  me,  that,  most  unaccountably,' 
my  lids  fell  over  my  eyes  as  though  weighted  with 
little  heavy  stones,  and  for  a  few  moments  I 
could  not  lift  them  again.  Also,  my  gift  for 
airy  conversation  suddenly  deserted  me  and  I 
became  tongue-tied.  I  remember  feeling  glad 
that  I  was  so  charming  to  look  at  or  he  might 
have  thought  me  a  fool.  For  I  had  not  a  word  to 
say;  I  could  only  listen  eagerly  to  him  talking 
about  Africa  like  a  lover.  At  least  I  felt  that  was 


The  Skies  Call  9 

the  way  I  should  like  my  lover  to  speak  of  me. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  Herriott  could  not  talk 
like  that  that  I  refused  him  that  night,  though 
I  had  always  intended  to  take  him,  and  I  knew 
I  should  vex  both  my  people  and  his  by  not 
fulfilling  what  had  been  almost  an  accepted 
situation  for  months  past. 

But  that  was  all  long  past — three  years  past  to 
be  accurate — ;  and  I  had  never  again  seen  the  man 
who  talked  of  Africa,  though  I  had  often  glanced 
round  ball-rooms  and  theatres  for  that  dark  face 
with  the  burning  eyes  and  the  ridiculous  blue 
turquoise  ear-rings.  Many  strange  things  had 
happened  since  then  to  swallow  up  the  memory 
of  him,  and  it  had  been  swallowed.  But  it  was 
strange  how  often  I  had  remembered  him  again 
since  I  set  out  on  this  journey  to  Mashonaland, 
and  passing  strange  that  though  I  had  only  been 
in  Africa  for  a  month  and  known  the  veldt  for 
only  eleven  days  I  seemed  to  understand  all  he 
had  said  about  it. 

Why  did  I  understand?  I  wondered.  Was  the 
lure  of  Africa  on  me  too?  Was  this  strange  brown 
land  of  golden  days,  and  crimson  and  orange 
eventides,  and  purple  nights,  calling  to  me? 
Would  it  keep  me  as  he  had  said  it  always  kept 
people  who  felt  the  lure  and  heard  the  call? 
At  the  thought  I  trembled  a  little,  and  felt  afraid 
of  I  knew  not  what.  Afterwards  I  laughed  to 
myself  at  the  absurdity  of  the  thought.  How 
could  Africa  keep  me?  I  belonged  to  the  civilised 


io  The  Claw 

cities  of  the  world.  My  home  was  in  Paris, 
London,  Dublin,  sometimes  New  York.  I  had 
lived  always  amongst  pictures,  and  sculpture, 
and  books,  beautiful  music,  lovely  clothes,  jewels. 
All  these  things  were  necessary  to  me.  I  could 
not  contemplate  life  without  them.  Africa  was 
only  an  interlude — an  experience.  In  a  few 
months  I  should  be  back  again  hunting  with  the 
Meath  pack  from  our  dear  little  box  near  Bal- 
briggan;  flying  over  to  London  for  balls  and 
Hurlingham,  or  with  my  pretty  Aunt  Betty  van 
Alen  in  her  Paris  studio,  entertaining  her  and 
her  friends  with  the  strange  tale  of  my  adventures 
in  this  strange  land.  How  ridiculous  to  fancy 
that  I  could  feel  the  thrilling  pain  of  a  claw  in 
my  heart — Africa's  claw!  What  was  Africa  to 
me  or  I  to  Africa? 

I  shivered.  There  were  mists  rising  every- 
where now,  and  joining  the  clouds  of  dust  they 
wove  gauzy  scarfs  about  us  and  white  things 
moved  before  us  on  the  road,  like  spectres  showing 
the  way. 

The  sunshine  that  I  loved  so  much  was  gone! 
It  was  my  passion  for  sunshine  and  blue  skies 
that  had  brought  me  for  a  time  to  this  barbaric 
land.  My  passion  for  sunshine  that  I  had  never 
really  been  able  to  indulge  to  the  full,  until  the 
crushing  failure  of  a  great  bank  in  America  had 
transformed  me  from  an  heiress  into  just  an  ordi- 
nary girl  with  a  few  hundreds  a  year  whom  the 
world  no  longer  concerned  itself  particularly  about. 


The  Skies  Call  11 

That  was  one  of  the  strange  events  that  had 
occurred  to  change  my  life  and  swallow  up  many 
vivid  memories.  First  my  lovely  and  much 
loved  mother,  the  one  parent  I  could  remember, 
had  died,  passing  away  softly  in  her  sleep  one 
night  and  looking  so  happy — almost  gay — as  she 
lay  there  dead,  that  it  had  seemed  wrong  to 
regret  what  had  happened  and  the  blow  had  thus 
been  robbed  of  half  its  terror  and  pain.  Then, 
directly  afterwards,  had  come  the  banking  dis- 
aster, sweeping  away  the  great  fortune  my  mother 
had  left  and  leaving  nothing  from  the  wreckage 
but  a  few  thousands  to  be  divided  between  my 
brother  Dick  and  me.  That  had  been  the  end 
of  my  fashionable  career,  and  when  I  realised  it 
I  rejoiced  with  an  exceeding  great  joy,  for  it  was 
a  life  that,  as  the  French  put  it,  had  "never  said 
anything  to  me."  Immediately  the  future  had 
become  far  more  interesting.  Hundreds  of  people 
whom  I  had  never  cared  a  button  about,  but  whom 
I  had  been  obliged  to  meet  and  smile  with,  "and 
gladly  endure,"  dropped  instantly  out  of  my  life 
and  I  never  saw  them  again.  The  horizon  became 
a  blank  canvas  that  I  might  fill  in  with  any 
figures  I  liked  against  any  background  I  chose. 
Well!  the  background  I  chose  was  sunshine, 
which  I  sought  in  many  out-of-the-way  places 
where  sunshine  abounds,  and  the  people  I  let 
into  my  picture  were  all  the  odd,  charming  crea- 
tures I  met  in  my  travels  and  the  delightful 
writers  and  painters  and  sculptors  who  made  up 


12  The  Claw 

the  world  of  my  Aunt  Betty  van  Alen,  herself  a 
gifted  sculptress  and  a  beautiful  Bohemian  soul. 
She  had  been  appointed  my  guardian  by  my 
mother,  and  we  spent  most  of  our  time  together, 
only,  a  true  American,  she  never  could  be  drawn 
very  far  from  her  beloved  Paris.  However,  she 
was  American  in  this,  too,  that  she  considered 
the  world  as  free  to  women  as  to  men,  and  that 
no  harm  could  come  to  a  self-reliant  girl  who  had 
been  well  brought  up  and  taught  black  from  white. 
So  that  when  she  could  not  be  with  me  herself 
she  suffered  no  qualms  in  letting  me  go  off  on  my 
excursions  alone,  and  was  perfectly  satisfied  that 
I  should  never  come  to  any  harm.  She  was  of 
opinion  that  every  true-born  American  girl  has 
her  head  so  well  balanced  and  such  a  fine  sense 
of  beauty  and  the  fitness  of  things  that  she  could 
never  step  from  the  paths  of  wisdom,  or  stray 
from  that  straight  white  road  that  her  religion 
and  early  training  had  laid  down  for  her;  that 
the  more  you  trust  an  American  girl  the  more 
she  is  trustworthy.  And  I  think  she  was  right. 
But  what  she  never  took  into  account  with  me 
was  that  though  my  mother  was  American  and 
I  had  been  born  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  my 
father's  half  of  me  was  Irish,  and  Irish  drops  in 
the  blood  spell  love  of  adventure,  love  of  the 
extraordinary  in  people  and  places  and  things, 
love  of  beauty,  and  lots  of  other  loves,  that 
not  only  cause  one  exquisite  pleasure  that  is 
more  than  half  pain,  but  lead  one  into  many 


The  Skies  Call  13 

strange  places  where  convention  is  not.  However, 
I  never  told  her  or  any  one  else  of  these  things. 
Indeed  it  was  only  dimly  that  I  realised  them  for 
myself. 

On  this  visit  to  Africa,  so  very  far  away  from 
her,  Betty  had  unexpectedly  held  out  rather 
firmly  about  the  necessity  of  a  chaperon,  and  to 
please  her  I  had  travelled  out  with  a  frumpy 
old  German  governess  we  had  both  known  many 
years,  who  was  visiting  Africa  to  see  about  some 
property  an  uncle  had  left  her  in  the  Trans- 
vaal. All  the  way  out  I  had  made  it  quite  plain 
to  Madame  von  Stohl  that  I  meant  to  go  up  to 
Mashonaland  and  see  my  brother  Dick,  that  in 
fact  it  was  one  of  my  chief  reasons  for  coming  to 
Africa  at  all;  and  she  never  said  a  word  against 
the  idea.  But  lo!  after  I  had  trailed  around  with 
her  to  all  sorts  of  uninteresting  places  in  Cape 
Colony  and  the  Transvaal  she  calmly  and  firmly 
refused  to  fulfil  her  part  of  the  programme  and 
go  with  me  to  Mashonaland.  She  said  she  was 
afraid  of  being  eaten  by  Lobengula,  the  King  of 
the  Matabele. 

The  only  thing  to  do,  then,  was  to  make  my 
own  plans  and  enquiries.  Every  one  told  me  it 
was  a  journey  of  the  very  roughest  and  wildest 
description,  and  that  very  few  women  had  done 
it  before.  It  appeared  that  there  were  already 
a  great  number  of  women  in  Mashonaland,  but 
they  had  all  travelled  up  by  waggon,  with  their 
men-folks  to  look  after  them,  taking  about  three 


14  The  Claw 

months  to  accomplish  the  journey.  Instead  of 
this  information  daunting  me,  as  it  was  evidently 
meant  to  do,  it  made  me  only  the  more  eager 
for  such  an  adventure.  Therefore,  when  I  heard 
one  man  remarking  to  another  (through  the  open 
window  of  the  Johannesburg  Hotel  where  we  were 
staying)  that  if  I  took  that  coach  journey  alone 
it  would  take  the  curl  out  of  my  hair,  I  merely 
felt  sorry  for  the  man: — first,  because  he  never 
would  and  never  could  know  that  my  hair  curled 
naturally,  and  secondly,  that  he  should  have  so 
poor  an  opinion  of  an  Irish-American  girl  as  to 
think  that  a  few  rough  adventures  would  scare 
her  from  a  plan  on  which  she  had  set  her  heart. 
In  any  case  it  was  really  no  business  of  his.  But 
Africa  is  chock  full  of  people  who  mind  your 
business  for  you  as  well  as  large  quantities  of  their 
own.  At  first  I  was  amazed  and  indignant  at 
the  number  of  utter  strangers  who  came  along 
and  tried  to  interfere  with  my  contemplated 
journey.  Later  I  learned  to  listen,  in  the  same 
spirit  as  it  was  given,  to  advice  that  was  not  really 
meant  for  anything  but  friendly  information 
and  a  touching  interest  in  the  mistakes  of  other 
people.  And  when  I  smiled  at  them  and  told 
them  that  I  loved  adventures  and  could  n't 
get  enough  of  them,  the  men  gazed  at  me  with 
admiration,  mingled  (they  told  me)  with  a  longing 
to  start  for  Mashonaland  by  the  same  coach, 
and  the  women  looked  wistful  but  denied  their 
longing  to  follow  my  example. 


The  Skies  Call  15 

As  for  Madame  von  Stohl,  she  refused  to  budge 
from  her  comfortable  quarters  in  the  Johannes- 
burg hotel.  I  was  secretly  delighted,  for  any- 
thing more  tiresome  than  a  fortnight's  unmitigated 
von  Stohl  in  the  cramped-up  space  of  a  coach  I 
could  not  imagine.  But  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  re- 
proach her.  She  thereupon  in  great  irritation 
made  some  not  at  all  agreeable  remarks  about  the 
unfortunate  fate  of  persons  descended  from  two 
entirely  irresponsible  nations,  without  any  sense 
of  duty  towards  society,  a  craving  for  excitement, 
and  no  proper  regard  for  the  conventions  of 
civilised  life. 

She  said  all  this  whilst  I  was  packing  my  pretti- 
est gowns  for  Fort  Salisbury,  and  I,  with  the  light 
heart  of  a  girl  who  knows  she  is  going  to  get  her 
own  way,  responded  with  some  cheerful  reflections 
on  heavy  pudding-headed  Teutons  who  had  not 
an  ounce  of  nous  in  the  whole  of  their  make-up, 
were  absolutely  lacking  in  imagination  and  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  and  simply  did  not  know 
the  meaning  of  joi  de  vivre.  What  was  the  use, 
I  demanded,  of  sticking  in  Johannesburg  and  all 
the  other  stupid  imitation  towns  and  imagining 
we  were  seeing  real  Africa? 

"One  might  just  as  well  be  in  England  or 
Germany,  except  that  life  in  Europe  is  more 
comfortable  and  not  so  expensive.  What  I  want 
to  see — besides  Dick,  of  course — is  the  illimitable 
veldt,  and  Brother  Boer,  and  prowling  lions,  and 
Lobengula's  fifty  wives." 


16  The  Claw 

Elizabet  von  Stohl  had  answered  that  her 
desire  was  not  unto  these  things.  I  then,  having 
pitifully  but  very  firmly  told  her  that  of  course 
she  could  not  help  having  been  born  a  German, 
went  out  and  telegraphed  to  Dick  to  come  down 
to  Johannesburg  and  fetch  me.  I  thought  I 
would  give  convention  a  fair  deal.  However,  he 
wired  back : 

"Impossible.  You  must  not  think  of  coming 
up  here  at  present.  Country  very  unsettled. 
May  be  trouble  with  the  natives  at  any  time." 

That  was  ridiculous,  of  course.  If  his  wife 
could  be  up  there,  why  couldn't  I?  And  if  he 
could  n't  fetch  me,  well,  it  was  quite  simple  to 
buy  a  ticket  for  the  coach  journey  and  go  up 
by  myself.  There  was  nothing  monstrous  in 
that!  What  did  it  matter  about  the  country 
being  unsettled  if  one  had  a  revolver  and  was  an 
excellent  shot? 

Certainly  twenty  pounds  was  an  amazing  price 
for  a  coach  ticket.  But  the  coach  agent  never 
said  a  word  about  its  being  a  dangerous  jour- 
ney, or  tried  to  dissuade  me  in  any  way.  On  the 
contrary  he  told  me  that  it  was  a  beautiful  coun- 
try, and  that  he  was  sure  I  should  have  a  very 
agreeable  time.  That  was  something  for  my 
twenty  pounds. 

When  I  showed  the  ticket  to  Madame  von 
Stohl  she  expostulated  more  bitterly  than  ever, 
and  said  she  should  cable  to  Aunt  Betty,  failing 
that,  to  Mr.  Rhodes,  the  Governor  of  Natal,  Dr. 


The  Skies  Call  17 

Jameson,  and  the  Bishop  of  Grahamstown.  On 
my  suggestion  that  the  King  of  Timbuctoo  might 
also  be  a  good  man  to  consult  she  turned  dark 
blue.  Afterwards  she  made  a  gesture  like  the 
washing  of  hands  and  said  that  I  might  go  my 
ways,  for  which  I  was  very  much  obliged  to  her. 
And  I  did  go  them  two  days  later  behind  eight 
prancing  mules,  in  company  with  a  cheerful 
telegraphist  for  Tuli,  and  a  missionary  who 
travelled  in  dancing  pumps  and  a  mackintosh. 
Since  then  the  magnificent  red  four-wheeled 
coach  we  had  set  out  in  had  been  changed  for 
"cart,  carriage,  wheel-barrow,  and  donkey-cart"; 
drawn  sometimes  by  mules,  sometimes  by  oxen; 
driven  by  men  sometimes  black,  sometimes  white, 
sometimes  yellow,  but  always  profane. 

At  Tuli  we  had  shed  the  telegraphist,  with  re- 
gret, for  he  was  a  merry  and  ingenious  soul,  full 
of  plots  for  the  commissariat  and  the  general 
comfort.  At  Palapchwe  the  missionary  got  off 
to  call  on  Khama,  the  King  of  the  Bechuanas, 
who  likes  missionaries,  though  not  to  eat.  The 
poor  man  was  minus  his  dancing  pumps,  having 
left  them  unwillingly  in  a  mud-hole  where  the 
cart  had  been  stuck  for  several  hours  and  we  had 
been  obliged  to  flee  for  our  lives  from  a  horde  of 
mosquitoes  as  large  as  quail. 

From  Palapchwe  I  had  travelled  alone,  but 
always  in  the  care  of  reliable  drivers,  and  wherever 
there  were  telegraph  stations  I  found  that  Dick, 
(who  had  come  round,  once  he  knew  I  was  well 


1 8  The  Claw 

en  route)  had  wired  to  people  to  meet  me  and  do 
all  they  could  for  me,  and  I  had  experienced 
nothing  but  kindness  and  hospitality  from  the 
settlers,  and  storekeepers  and  the  officers  at  the 
police  camps.  On  the  third  day  out  from 
Palapchwe,  however,  my  good  driver  had  broken 
his  arm,  and  been  hastily  replaced  by  a  man  whom 
the  coach  agent  did  not  know  so  well  but  hoped 
would  be  reliable.  This  was  my  friend  of  the 
oystery  eyes  who  so  vociferously  bellowed — 
Hirrrr  .  .  .  rrr  .  .  .  rrie-yoh  doppers!  .  .  .  Slaagte 
eiseltjies! 


Night  was  on  us  at  last.  The  pace  of  the  mules 
grew  slacker  and  slacker:  they  were  reaching 
the  end  of  their  run,  and  obviously  the  end  of  their 
endurance.  The  rush  of  water  could  be  plainly 
heard  on  the  still  air,  and  close  ahead  loomed  the 
denser,  taller  bush  that  on  the  veldt  invariably 
outlines  the  banks  of  a  river. 

I  began  to  think  rather  wistfully  of  the  little 
tin  hotel  or  thatched  store  I  knew  must  be  near, 
where  we  would  outspan  for  the  night.  The 
travellers'  bedrooms  in  such  "hotels"  were  the 
most  amazing  and  extraordinary  places  I  had  ever 
met,  but  they  were  nevertheless  an  improve- 
ment on  my  present  confined  quarters.  I  should 
at  least  be  able  to  stretch  my  cramped  limbs, 
and  there  would  be  lights  and  perhaps  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  hot  water  to  wash  off  the  suffocating 


The  Skies  Call  19 

dust.  These  things  had  never  yet  failed  me  at 
the  various  halting  places,  and  there  was  nearly 
always  a  woman  of  some  kind  to  do  her  best  for 
me. 

•  The  driver  presently  got  down  from  his  seat, 
lighted  a  lantern,  and  going  to  the  head  of  the 
team  began  to  guide  his  tired  mules  along  the 
broken  road.  This  was  now  little  more  than  a 
wide  foot-path,  waggon-rutted  and  holed-out  by 
the  hoofs  of  the  beasts  of  burden  that  had  gone 
before.  The  stumps  of  trees  chopped  down  by 
the  axes  of  the  Pioneers  were  still  green  and  sappy 
in  the  track,  and  the  wheels  of  the  cart  jarred 
against  rocks  that  traffic  had  not  worn  down,  and 
crushed  through  the  houses  of  white  ants  who 
had  not  yet  acquired  the  wisdom  to  build  else- 
where than  on  the  road  leading  to  the  country  of 
Cecil  Rhodes. 

At  last  the  cart  stood  still.  The  driver  swing- 
ing his  lantern  went  on  alone  and  in  a  few  moments 
was  lost  sight  of  in  the  bush.  The  mules  began 
to  quiver  in  an  eerie  way,  and  the  trembling  of 
them  subtly  communicated  itself  to  the  cart  which 
also  began  to  quiver  and  creak  like  an  animate 
thing.  I  shivered  and  pulled  a  rug  round  my 
shoulders.  It  seemed  we  had  come  to  a  lonely 
and  desolate  spot.  The  trees  standing  black 
against  the  stars  looked  enormous  and  sinister, 
and  there  was  something  menacing  in  that  sound 
of  swift  rushing  water. 

After  a  long  while  the  driver  came  stumbling 


2O  The  Claw 

back,  fixed  his  lantern  on  a  hook  in  front  of  the 
cart,  and  began  to  be  extremely  busy  with  the 
mules.  The  jingle  of  harness  falling  to  the  ground 
was  heard,  accompanied  by  more  creaking  and 
shivering.  My  interest  was  aroused. 

"What  are  you  doing,  driver?"  I  asked  sharply. 
I  knew  quite  well  this  could  not  be  right.  If 
the  mules  were  unharnessed  how  could  we  reach 
that  most  desirable  little  tin  hotel?  The  driver 
answered  in  a  voice  considerably  thicker  and 
more  incoherent  than  the  last  time  I  had  heard 
it  (greased  lightning,  I  had  observed,  frequently 
has  this  effect  upon  the  vocal  cords)  : 

"River 's  full — cart  can't  cross  d'  drift  to-night." 

"But  the  little  tin— the  hotel ?" 

"Hotels  d'  other  side,"  was  the  laconic  re- 
sponse, and  he  continued  to  undo  the  mules. 
Harness  fell  around  him  like  hail. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  faltered. 

"Going  to  put  d'  eisels  into  d'  stable,"  he 
answered  stolidly,  indicating  with  his  arm  a  mass 
of  blackness  on  his  left,  that  might  have  been 
either  a  hay-stack  or  a  cathedral,  "an'  shut  me 
in  wid  dem.  You  better  come  saam,  Miss." 
He  gave  a  drunken  chuckle.  I  fingered  my 
Colt,  and  that  gave  me  courage  to  answer  in 
a  clear  voice  that  betrayed  no  sign  of  the  panic 
in  my  soul: 

"Nonsense,  driver!  of  course  there  must  be 
some  decent  place  for  me  to  spend  the  night. 
Take  me  to  it  at  once." 


The  Skies  Call  21 

He  had  all  the  mules  loose,  and  holding  each 
by  a  small  head-rein  they  radiated  from  him  like 
the  rays  of  a  black  star  of  which  the  lantern  in 
his  hand  was  the  scarlet  centre.  By  its  light 
I  could  see  his  stupid  brutal  face  clearly,  though 
I  was  hidden  from  his  vision  in  the  dimness  of 
the  cart.  However  he  could  recognise  authority 
when  he  heard  its  note,  and  looking  towards  me 
answered  with  a  faint  shade  of  respect  in  his 
voice  if  not  in  his  words: 

"You  got  to  take  your  choice,  Miss.  Come 
saam  into  d'  stable  wid  me  and  d'  mules  or  else 
sit  in  d'  cart  all  night  wid  d'  lions.  We  can't 
cross  d'  river." 

"Lions!"  I  stammered.  "But  there  must  be 
some  place,  somewhere  for  me  to  go  to — a  hut — 
a  store — something!" 

Such  a  desperate,  horrible  situation  was  in- 
credible. The  mules  were  shivering  with  the 
steam  still  rising  from  them  and  the  driver  grew 
impatient.  Apparently  he  acknowledged  a  duty 
to  them  if  not  to  me.  He  came  close  to  the  cart 
and  spoke  menacingly  and  finally  into  it. 

"See  yere:  dis  is  d'  Umzingwani  River.  No 
hotels  yere,  oney  plenty  of  lions,  worst  place  in 
Africa  for  lions;  dat  's  why  I  'm  going  to  shut 
me  up  with  d'  eisels.  See  dat  place  over  dere?" 
He  pointed  to  another  grim  shadow  that  might 
have  represented  anything  in  this  grim  place  of 
shades — "Baas  O'Flynn  and  Baas  Jones  kept  a 
store  dere.  Baas  O'Flynn  died  of  d'  jim-jams,  and 


22  The  Claw 

his  grave  is  round  back  of  d'  hut:  and  a  lioness 
fetched  Baas  Jones  out  from  behind  the  counter 
one  day  and  walked  off  wid  him  in  front  of  two 
kaffirs.  I  tell  you  lions  is  thick  round  here. 
Dat  's  why  dey  built  a  stable  dis  side  for  when 
d'  river 's  full,  and  dat  's  why  I  am  going  to  shut 
me  up  wid  d'  eisels.  So  now  you  better  take 
your  choice,  Miss,  d'  eisels  and  me — or  d'  lions. " 

I  was  silent  in  amazement  and  horror,  petri- 
fied with  apprehension;  dew  was  on  my  forehead. 
The  driver,  supposing  that  I  was  making  my 
choice,  waited  for  a  moment  or  so,  then  getting  no 
answer,  turned  his  mules  and  moved  away  amidst 
the  jingling  of  headstalls,  muttering  and  chuckling 
to  himself: 

"Ach!  arlright  den,  I  told  you  what,  if  you 
don't  come  saam  wid  me!" 

I  watched  his  going  with  despair;  but  my  dry 
tongue  refused  to  call  him  back.  It  seemed  to 
me  there  could  be  no  worse  horror  than  to 
spend  the  night  shut  in  a  stable  with  that  brute 
and  the  mules.  And  yet — lions!  My  backbone 
became  a  line  of  ice. 

But  I  would  not  recall  him.  I  watched  him 
staggering  away  from  me,  the  lantern  rays  flick- 
ering between  the  dark  bodies  of  the  mules. 
They  seemed  to  go  a  long  way  off  before  they 
reached  the  stable,  but  at  last  I  descried  the  inside 
of  a  brick  building,  narrow  and  manger-lined. 
For  one  moment  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  mules 
nosing  eagerly  to  their  places,  then  the  closing 


The  Skies  Call  23 

of  a  heavy  door  shut  out  the  pale  vision,  a  bar 
fell  heavily  into  its  place,  and  I  was  shut  and 
bolted  into  the  outer  darkness:  alone  in  a  wild 
and  lonely  part  of  Africa. 

Began  then  for  me  the  strangest  night  of  all 
my  life.  In  the  midst  of  the  thick  darkness 
there  suddenly  and  unwarrantably  appeared  be- 
tween the  branches  of  trees  taller  than  any  I 
had  seen  on  the  whole  journey  a  wraith-like  new 
moon,  white  as  a  milk  opal.  It  peered  through 
the  black  trees  like  a  ghost  that  has  lost  its  soul 
and  seeks  for  it  in  desolate  places.  It  shed  no 
light  at  all,  but  just  hovered  there,  peering,  pal- 
ing the  light  of  the  stars,  and  etching  into  view 
things  that  had  better  have  been  left  hidden.  It 
outlined  some  white  bones  that  lay  in  an  apart 
place  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  making  them  glisten  as 
if  they  were  composed  of  silver.  It  revealed  the 
stable  crouching  amongst  the  bush  like  a  grey 
monster.  It  showed  up  a  spectre-like  kopje  on 
the  left  that  I  had  not  known  was  there  at  all 
and  that  was  unlike  any  kopje  I  had  ever  seen, 
bare  as  a  glacier  with  neither  stock  nor  stone  on  it, 
nothing  but  one  malignant-looking  tree  perched 
on  its  summit,  leafless  and  crooked,  holding  out 
a  forked  arm  that  beckoned  me  hideously. 

It  is  not  for  nothing  that  a  superstition  exists 
purporting  bad  luck  to  those  who  see  the  new 
moon  through  trees.  There  is  indeed  something 
disquietingly  sinister  in  the  sight.  My  Irish  heart 
beat  wildly  in  my  breast.  I  was  all  superstitious 


24  The  Claw 

Celt  at  that  moment — not  a  drop  of  calm,  sane 
American  anywhere  about  me.  My  shaking 
hand  clutched  at  my  revolver.  I  had  heard  or 
read  somewhere  of  people  shooting  the  moon, 
and  I  wondered  vaguely  whether  it  was  upon 
occasions  such  as  this  that  the  dread  deed 
was  done.  Afar  a  wail  of  infinite  sadness  and 
melancholy  pierced  and  echoed  through  the 
silence.  In  months  to  come  I  was  to  learn  to 
hear  music  in  the  hungry  jackal's  dirge,  but 
at  that  time  it  sounded  to  me  like  the  cry  of 
some  despairing  soul  suffering  the  torments  of 
everlasting  fire. 

I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  closed.  Some  mys- 
terious force  compelled  me  to  open  them  again 
and  again  upon  the  scene  of  terrifying  ghostliness. 
Also,  when  I  shut  them  the  rush  of  waters  seemed 
to  surround  the  cart,  and  I  expected  at  any 
moment  to  find  myself  being  swept  away  down 
the  strong  river.  In  reality,  nothing  moved, 
not  even  a  leaf  on  a  tree.  All  was  still,  silent 
as  the  dead  under  the  watching  moon;  even  the 
little  chirping  cries  and  noises  of  the  grass  insects 
were  hushed,  or  swallowed  up  in  the  smooth 
swift  sound  of  rushing  power.  Only  far  away  the 
wailing  tragic  cry  of  the  jackal  found  many  an 
echo  and  response. 

Hours  passed  that  were  centuries  to  me,  sitting 
Buddha-like  on  the  floor  of  the  cart,  stiff  and 
motionless,  clutching  my  revolver.  The  moon 
lingered  long,  seeming  to  cling  to  the  branches 


The  Skies  Call  25 

in  a  vain  effort  to  stay  longer,  but  at  last  she 
sank  despairingly,  and  once  more  the  clearing 
above  the  drift  on  the  Umzingwani  River  was 
wrapt  in  the  blackness  of  the  nethermost  pit. 

It  was  only  then  that  I  dared  change  my 
position  a  little.  Feeling  for  the  hoops  of  the 
cart-hood  I  very  slowly  dragged  my  agonised 
limbs  upwards,  until  my  head  touched  the  top 
of  the  hood.  Even  so  I  could  barely  stand 
upright,  and  the  exquisite  pain  of  leaping  blood 
circulating  once  more  in  my  numbed  limbs  was 
almost  more  than  I  could  bear.  But  as  I  stood 
so,  Fear,  full-armed,  rushed  upon  me  again,  for 
in  the  sea  of  darkness  round  me,  I  distinctly 
heard  something  moving: — on  swift,  padded  feet 
something  was  stealing  round  the  cart  and 
breathing!  Sinking  down  noiselessly  to  my  former 
position,  I  peered  between  the  mail-bags  into  the 
darkness,  and  once  more  dew  stood  on  my  fore- 
head in  little  beads.  Suddenly,  I  saw  two  small 
pale  green  fires  that  moved  together,  then  two 
more  exactly  the  same,  and  I  knew  they  were  the 
eyes  of  savage  beasts.  Paralysed  with  fright, 
I  was  afraid  to  stir,  afraid  almost  to  breathe. 
But  my  mind,  still  working  vividly,  considered 
the  best  thing  to  do — to  sit  perfectly  still  in  the 
hope  that  they  would  not  venture  into  the  cart 
after  me,  or  to  fire  my  revolver  into  them  one 
barrel  after  the  other.  The  noise  of  breathing 
and  moving  was  plainly  made  by  more  than  one 
beast,  and  there  were  growlings  now  and  horrible 


26  The  Claw 

purring  noises.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  not  one  lion  but  probably  half-a-dozen 
after  me.  To  my  increased  horror  the  cart 
suddenly  began  to  shake.  Were  they  preparing 
to  spring  upon  me?  I  grasped  my  revolver 
firmly,  and  with  the  other  hand  swiftly  crossed 
myself  and  whispered  a  prayer,  for  indeed  I 
believed  that  my  last  moment  was  come.  But 
nothing  happened.  Only  the  coach  went  on 
shaking  softly,  and  the  snarlings  and  growlings 
in  several  keys  continued;  there  was  a  faint 
jingle,  too,  of  the  harness  that  had  been  left  lying 
on  the  ground.  What  could  be  happening? 

I  began  to  feel  strangely  sick  and  faint.  Since 
morning  I  had  eaten  nothing  but  a  very  stale 
sandwich,  and  the  long  fast,  together  with  the 
series  of  emotions  I  had  gone  through,  began  to 
tell  upon  me.  My  mental  vision  grew  a  little 
dim  and  unattached.  I  found  myself  thinking 
vaguely  about  things  that  were  not  at  all  apropos 
to  the  situation.  I  reflected,  as  drowning  people 
are  said  to  do,  on  all  the  things  I  had  done  and 
seen  since  first  I  could  remember,  and  on  all 
the  persons  I  had  known,  including  and  especially 
Elizabet  von  Stohl  who  had  so  emphatically 
opposed  this  journey.  I  suddenly  detested  her 
exceedingly!  How  pleased  though  shocked  she 
would  be  if  she  could  know  how  faithfully  her 
prognostications  of  evil  were  coming  true !  Would 
she  pretend  to  be  shocked?  But  she  should  never 
know.  Even  in  my  extremity  I  gave  a  desolate 


The  Skies  Call  27 

smile  to  think  that  if  the  lions  did  get  me  they 
would  carry  me  off  into  the  deep  bush  and  leave 
nothing  behind  to  tell  the  tale.  My  fate  would 
be  wrapped  for  ever  in  romantic  if  terrible  mys- 
tery, and  no  one  would  know  what  naked  depths 
of  terror  my  soul  had  sounded  amidst  the  fearsome 
darkness  of  the  veldt.  But  I  resolved  that  if 
ever  I  got  out  of  this  alive  the  eloquent  reserve 
which  marks  the  truly  great  should  distinguish 
me  also  as  far  as  my  African  adventures  were 
concerned.  One  thing  was  certain:  my  taste  for 
prowling  lions  was  appeased.  I  also  felt  a 
diminished  interest  in  Lobengula's  fifty  wives. 
As  for  the  illimitable  veldt  it  was  the  limit! 

And  all  the  time  the  breathings  and  purrings 
and  snarlings  went  on;  and  as  if  that  were  not 
enough  they  began  to  chew.  Heaven  knows  what 
they  were  chewing,  but  I  felt  sure  that  it  would 
very  shortly  be  me.  Suddenly  I  became  aware 
that  something  had  approached  the  step  of  the  cart 
and  was  close  to  me.  I  could  hear  its  breathing 
and  plainly  I  saw  the  gleam  of  two  little  pale 
green  fires.  An  enterprising  lion  had  smelt 
me  out  at  last  and  meant  to  do  unto  me  as  had 
been  done  unto  Mr.  Jones.  The  thought  was 
too  much;  with  the  last  desperate  courage  of  the 
doomed  I  took  Fate  into  my  hands,  and  leaning 
forward  fired  barrel  after  barrel  from  my  revolver 
in  the  direction  of  the  little  pale  fires.  The 
noise  of  the  detonations  echoing  and  repeating 
through  the  silent  place  was  enormous  and  terri- 


28  The  Claw 

fying,  but  in  the  tingling  stillness  that  followed, 
my  straining  ears  caught  the  sound  of  fleeing 
padded  feet  and  the  crackling  of  small  branches 
and  undergrowth  at  gradual  distances.  Then 
my  senses  swam,  and  I  sank  back  behind  my 
barricade  of  mail-bags. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  RIVER  CALLS 

"And  there  's  no  end  of  voyaging 
When  once  the  voice  is  heard, 
For  the  river  calls,  and  the  road  calls, 
And  oh!  the  call  of  the  bird." 

{SUPPOSE  I  fainted,  and  later  perhaps  I  slept. 
At  any  rate  it  seemed,  and  must  have  been, 
a  long  while  afterwards  that  I  waked  up  to  a 
sound  so  pleasant  and  comforting  that  I  believed 
at  first  I  must  still  be  in  the  land  of  strange  dreams 
in  which  my  mind  had  been  wandering.  But 
I  presently  realised  that  though  I  was  still  lying 
curled  up  in  the  cart,  it  really  was  the  sound  of 
wood  crackling  and  burning  in  a  fire,  and  that 
the  aromatic  flavour  in  the  air  was  the  smoke 
of  wood  mingled  with  the  curiously  sweet  scent 
of  burning  leaves  and  branches,  still  hissing 
with  sap.  Very  softly  I  raised  myself  upon  a 
cramped  elbow  and  looked  out  of  the  cart.  The 
place  was  transformed.  The  circular  clearing, 
no  longer  gaunt  and  terrifying  but  a  scene  of  tall 

enchanted  trees  and  frondy  ferns,  was  lit  up  with 

29 


30  The  Claw 

leaping  rose-and- amber  lights  from  four  large 
fires  built  at  the  corners  of  a  square.  The  post- 
cart,  well  within  the  radius,  had  a  munching  horse 
tethered  to  it,  while  stretched  at  full  length  on 
a  rug  in  the  firelight  was  a  man. 

He  was  lying  carelessly  at  his  ease,  and  by  the 
flickering  light  of  the  fires  looking  through  a 
number  of  letters  and  papers.  One  hand  sup- 
ported a  determined-looking  jaw;  the  rest  of  his 
face  was  hidden  under  a  hat  with  so  evil  a  slouch 
to  it  that  it  might  easily  have  belonged  to  a 
burglar.  He  wore  no  coat;  only  a  grey  flannel 
shirt  open  at  the  neck,  with  a  dark  blue  and  crim- 
son striped  handkerchief  (the  kind  of  thing 
college  men  put  on  after  boating  or  football) 
knotted  loosely  round  his  bare  throat.  His 
khaki  riding-breeches  were  "hitched"  round 
him  on  a  leather  belt  from  which  also  depended 
a  heavy  Service  revolver  and  a  knife-case.  By 
the  side  of  him  on  the  rug  lay  a  gun.  He  was 
evidently  taking  no  risks  as  far  as  lions  were 
concerned. 

I  began  to  have  an  extraordinary  curiosity  to 
see  his  face.  Moreover  I  longed  with  a  fervent 
longing  not  only  to  get  out  and  sit  in  the  warmth 
of  those  homely  and  attractive  fires,  but  to  speak 
with  another  human  being.  If  he  would  only 
look  up,  I  thought,  and  let  me  see  whether  or 
not  he  had  an  honest  face!  I  could  not  trust 
that  hat.  With  such  a  hat  he  might  be  a  horse 
thief,  an  escaped  convict,  an  I.  D.  B.,  or  a  pirate 


The  River  Calls  31 

on  a  holiday,  and  though  any  of  those  might 
possibly  be  interesting  persons  to  meet  I  felt 
that  the  time  and  place  were  hardly  suitable  for 
such  a  rencontre.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to 
lie  perdue  until  I  was  able  to  come  to  some 
conclusion  as  to  what  manner  of  man  he  was. 
Even  while  I  so  decided  he  moved. 

Sitting  straight  up  he  rolled  the  letter  he  had 
been  reading  into  a  ball  and  aimed  it  with  vio- 
lence and  precision  at  the  nearest  fire,  uttering 
at  the  same  time  some  bad  and  bitter  words  that 
came  quite  clearly  to  my  ears.  However,  I  was 
by  that  time  inured  to  bad  language.  Every 
one  in  South  Africa  uses  it  when  they  think  you 
are  not  listening.  Also,  it  is  apparently  the  only 
language  that  mules  and  oxen  understand  for 
drivers  never  speak  any  other.  I  had  become 
so  accustomed  to  wicked  words  that  I  no  longer 
took  the  slightest  notice  of  them. 

To  my  amazement  I  discovered  that  he  was 
muttering  verse  to  himself — bits  of  Stevenson: 

"  Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone. 

Say,  can  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  heart  he  sailed  on  a  day, 
Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 


Glory  of  youth  glowed  in  his  veins. 
Where  is  that  glory  now  ?" 

He    whipped    the    muffler    from   his   neck   at 


32  The  Claw 

this  and  flung  it  down,  then  drove  his  hands  into 
his  pockets  and  continued  his  sullen  chant: 

"  Give  me  again  all  that  was  there. 

Give  me  the  sun  that  shone. 
Give  me  the  heart,  give  me  the  eyes, 
Give  me  the  lad  that  is  gone!" 

He  flung  off  his  hat.  I  was  able  to  get  some 
idea  of  his  general  appearance  then,  as  he  passed 
up  and  down  in  the  varying  lights  and  shadows, 
and  that  too  seemed  strangely  reminiscent  of 
some  one  I  had  known.  But  I  was  disappointed 
to  find  that  he  did  n't  look  the  least  bit  like  the 
hero  of  a  romance.  He  was  not  even  tall.  What 
was  worse  he  had  the  most  awful  hair.  It  was 
black  and  lank  like  an  Indian's  and  distinctly 
thin  in  front,  and  one  strand  of  it  like  a  rag  of 
black  silk  kept  falling  away  from  the  rest  and 
hanging  down  between  his  bad-tempered  blue 
eyes — at  least  I  felt  sure  they  must  be  bad- 
tempered,  and  I  had  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  were  blue,  because  every  time  he 
passed  the  fire  I  got  a  suggestion  of  blue.  He 
perpetually  smeared  the  rag  of  hair  back  from 
his  eyes  and  it  as  perpetually  fell  down  again.  A 
curious  thing  about  him  was  the  way  he  moved, 
so  softly  and  firmly  on  his  feet,  yet  without  making 
a  sound,  and  when  he  reached  the  end  of  one  of  his 
enforced  marches  he  swung  round  in  the  same 
pleasing  way  that  the  sail  of  a  boat  swings  in  the 


The  River  Calls  33 

wind.  It  was  hard  to  admit  that  a  sort  of  burglar 
in  riding-breeches  could  interest  one  by  the  way 
he  walked,  but  I  had  to  admit  after  a  time,  that 
there  was  a  queer  distinction  and  grace  about  him. 
He  made  a  further  remark  to  the  stars: 

"  'Give  me  again  all  that  was  there.'  But 
what  for,  good  Lord?  To  let  women  wipe  their 
boots  on  and  throw  in  the  mud!  Ah,  they  leave 
one  nothing!  They  throw  down  every  shrine 
one  sets  up." 

I  began  to  feel  almost  as  safe  as  when  the 
lions  were  prowling  around. 

"This  terrible  Africa  is  full  of  brutes!"  I  said 
to  myself.  "If  I  once  get  out  of  it,  will  I  ever 
come  back  again  ?  No ! " 

The  man  suddenly  left  off  tramping,  and  going 
to  each  of  the  fires  fed  them  in  turn  from  a  large 
pile  of  wood  which  he  had  evidently  collected 
on  arrival.  Then  he  came  to  his  horse  and  put- 
ting his  arm  round  its  neck  spoke  to  it  in  a  voice 
curiously  sweet,  quite  unlike  that  in  which  he  had 
been  reviling  women;  and  the  horse  whinnied 
softly  to  him  in  return. 

"Dear  old  Belle!"  he  said,  "you've  had  a 
rough  time,  but  there  's  a  rest  coming — a  good 
rest  coming  and  after  that  boot-and-saddle ! 
We  '11  get  away  from  them  all  once  more;  and 
maybe  if  we  have  any  luck,  we  '11  get  a  rest  once 
and  for  all — a  long,  long  rest — under  the  wide  and 
starry  sky." 

I  was  ashamed  to  hear  these  intimate  bitter 


34  The  Claw 

things  he  was  confiding  to  his  horse  with  his  arm 
round  her  neck  and  his  face  bent.  But  could  I 
help  it?  Only  I  was  no  longer  afraid.  I  felt 
that  in  spite  of  his  fierce  and  violent  words  there 
was  nothing  to  fear  from  him. 

Walking  back  to  his  rug  he  threw  himself 
down  once  more,  this  time  on  his  back,  clasping 
his  hands  under  his  head  and  closing  his  eyes. 
In  a  few  moments  he  was  sleeping  as  peacefully 
as  a  child. 

It  really  seemed  after  awhile  that  I  might 
venture  to  descend.  Apparently  there  was  no 
danger  to  be  anticipated  from  any  quarter.  He 
had  guarded  against  lions  by  making  fires  and 
now  he  himself  was  asleep.  There  was  nothing 
to  fear  but  still  I  was  horribly  afraid.  As  quietly 
and  carefully  as  possible  I  unknotted  myself 
and  crawled  out  of  the  cart,  for  I  was  really  too 
stiff  and  weary  to  do  anything  but  crawl,  and 
when  at  last  I  stood  on  the  ground  by  the  step, 
my  legs  would  hardly  support  me.  However,  I 
eventually  gained  the  courage  and  strength  to 
steal  to  the  nearest  fire  and  stretch  my  numbed 
fingers  to  the  blaze.  It  was  so  big  that  I  was 
able  to  warm  myself  without  stooping,  a  fact 
I  was  intensely  grateful  for:  I  felt  that  I  should 
never  want  to  sit  or  kneel  again  for  the  rest  of 
my  life. 

The  man  slept  peacefully  on.  I  could  not  see 
him  clearly  for  the  firelight  dazed  my  eyes,  but 
I  could  hear  his  quiet  and  regular  breathing. 


The  River  Calls  35 

Later  I  crept  closer  and  gave  another  glance 
to  the  face  I  was  so  curious  to  see.  At  the  same 
moment  a  bright  flicker  of  light  passed  right  over 
his  eyes  and  I  saw  that  they  were  open  and  regard- 
ing me  with  a  wide  and  steady  stare.  Without 
a  sound  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

My  hands  dropped  to  my  sides,  and  I  drew  my- 
self up  to  my  full  height,  prepared  (though  my 
heart  was  nearly  jumping  out  of  my  body)  to 
be  very  calm  and  dignified  indeed  to  this  woman- 
hater  who  could  only  be  nice  to  horses.  As  for 
him,  the  wind  was  entirely  out  of  his  sails  also : 
he  simply  stood  there  staring  at  me,  dumb  with 
amazement  at  finding  one  of  the  hated  brood  of 
women  in  his  camp.  I  might  have  got  a  good 
deal  of  malicious  satisfaction  out  of  the  situation 
if  I  had  not  been  almost  stunned  into  confusion 
and  astonishment  myself  in  the  revelation  that 
the  man  who  stood  staring  at  me  was  the  dark, 
blue-eyed  man  with  whom  I  had  talked  about 
Africa  three  years  before  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge. 
I  recognised  in  a  moment  his  extraordinarily  vivid 
eyes  with  the  careless  lids  that  covered  so  intent 
a  glance.  And  there  were  the  little  bits  of  blue 
turquoise  still  stuck  in  his  ears! 

I  can  only  account  for  not  having  recognised 
him  earlier  by  the  fact  that  I  had  not  really  seen 
his  eyes.  He  was  one  of  those  men  whom  you 
might  pass  without  a  glance,  thinking  him  ordi- 
nary, until  you  looked  in  his  face  or  he  spoke  to 
you.  Then  you  saw  at  once  that  he  was  not 


36  The  Claw 

ordinary  at  all,  that  so  far  from  being  short  he 
was  seemingly  at  least  about  three  heads  taller 
than  most  men,  also  that  his  hair  was  perfectly 
nice,  and  what  was  better  perfectly  original. 
In  his  crakey,  thrilly  voice  he  was  now  assuring 
me  that  he  had  never  supposed  for  an  instant 
that  there  was  any  one  in  the  post-cart. 

"And  a  lady,  good  God! — I  mean  it  is  unbe- 
lievable; but  where  is  your  driver?  Do  you 
mean  to  say,  Madam,  that  you  have  been  here 
alone  in  that  cart  all  the  evening?" 

Madam!  That  was  funny,  though  I  did  not 
much  care  about  being  taken  for  a  madam.  But 
of  course  he  could  see  nothing  of  my  face  through 
my  thick  veil. 

1 '  Yes, ' '  I  said.  ' '  The  driver  gave  me  my  choice 
between  being  shut  into  the  stable  with  the  mules 
or  staying  out  here  in  the  cart  alone.  I  preferred 
this." 

"  The  infernal  scoundrel !  The —  His  mouth 
shut,  he  hastily  swallowed  something,  doubtless 
more  profanity.  "The  scoundrel!"  he  repeated. 

"The  river  is  full.  He  said  we  could  not  cross 
to-night." 

"That  is  true,  but  his  business  was  to  make 
fires  here  and  guard  you.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
dangerous  places  in  Africa.  I  cannot  think, 
Madam,  how  you  came  to  be  on  such  a  journey 
alone  and  unprotected.  Some  one  is  gravely  to 
blame." 

"No,  indeed, "  I  faltered.     "No  one  is  to  blame 


The  River  Calls  37 

but  myself.  I  insisted  on  taking  this  journey 
against  all  advice.  If  the  lions  had  eaten  me 
it  would  have  been  my  own  fau-lt." 

I  don't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  me,  but 
suddenly  the  remembrance  of  all  my  terrors  over- 
whelmed me  and  I  began  to  cry.  I  never  thought 
I  could  have  been  so  utterly  silly  and  ridiculous, 
but  the  cause  was  something  that  I  had  no  control 
over,  something  quite  outside  myself ;  it  may  have 
been  the  reaction  of  suddenly  feeling  so  safe  after 
all  my  misery,  or  that  his  voice  was  the  kind  of 
voice  that  stirs  one  up  to  doing  things  one  did  n't 
intend  to  do;  really  I  don't  know.  Only,  I  cried 
quite  foolishly  and  brokenly  for  a  few  moments 
like  a  child,  and  he  took  hold  of  my  hands  and 
patted  them  and  said  ever  so  kindly: 

"There,  there — don't  cry,  for  Heaven's  sake 
don't  cry — it 's  all  right  now — you  're  quite  safe 
— I  '11  take  care  of  you.  And  I  '11  hammer  that 
brute  within  an  inch  of  his  life  to-morrow  morn- 
ing,"  he  added  savagely. 

He  made  me  sit  on  his  rug  by  the  fire,  while  he 
went  over  to  the  cart  and  hauled  out  mail-bags 
and  cushions  and  rugs,  all  bundled  up  together, 
and  dragged  them  over  by  the  fire,  and  in  two 
minutes  had  a  most  delightful  sort  of  lounge- 
seat  ready  for  me.  I  never  thought  other  people's 
letters  and  parcels  could  be  so  comfortable  and 
useful. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "have  you  got  anything  to 
eat  or  drink?  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  n't  a 


38  The  Claw 

thing.  I  'm  '  travelling  light, '  and  expected  to 
cross  the  river  to-night  and  get  to  Madison's 
for  dinner. " 

Of  course  I  had  a  travelling  basket  with  plenty 
of  tinned  things  in  it,  and  some  stale  bread. 
There  was  also  tea  and  a  little  kettle  which  he 
filled  from  the  water-bag  under  the  cart  and  had 
over  the  fire  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  while 
I  spread  a  napkin  on  the  ground  and  laid  out  as 
invitingly  as  possible  such  provisions  as  I  had. 
Then,  while  he  was  once  more  replenishing  the 
fires,  I  pulled  a  little  mirror  from  my  vanity 
bag,  and  by  its  aid  removed  some  of  the  dust  which 
by  reason  of  my  tears  had  now  turned  to  mud 
on  my  face.  I  arranged  my  veil  over  my  hat, 
and  my  dainty,  tragic  brown  face  looked  back 
at  me  from  the  hand-glass.  I  say  tragic  because 
so  many  people  have  said  it  before  of  me  and  I  've 
got  used  to  the  word  but  I  could  never  really  see 
myself  what  suggested  it.  Only  I  know  that  I 
am  rather  original  looking.  I  do  not  profess 
to  be  pretty:  but  I  am  unusual;  and  I  have  nice 
bones,  and  the  shades  of  brown  and  amber  in  my 
eyes  and  hair  are  really  rather  charming;  and  I 
know  I  Ve  a  good  line  from  my  ear  to  my  chin — 
one  cannot  study  sculpture  without  getting  to 
recognise  fine  lines  whether  in  one  's  self  or  other 
people. 

When  he  came  back  with  the  kettle  of  boiling 
water,  I  knelt  by  the  cloth  and  made  the  tea, 
while  he  stared  at  me  in  perfect  silence.  Per- 


The  River  Calls  39 

haps  he  was  surprised  to  see  that  I  did  n't  look 
much  like  a  madam  after  all.  He  made  no 
sign  of  recognition,  which  was  rather  disap- 
pointing, but  I  did  not  mind  at  the  time  as  I  was 
so  frightfully  hungry.  So  was  he.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  attempt  on  the  part  of  either  of 
us  to  disguise  the  fact  that  we  each  possessed 
what  Dick  called  an  "edge."  We  drank  our 
tea  and  fell  like  wolves  upon  the  sandwiches  I 
had  made  of  stale  bread  and  potted  turkey.  We 
also  cleaned  up  a  tin  of  sardines,  about  three 
pounds  of  biscuits,  and  a  pot  of  strawberry  jam. 
We  ate  like  schoolboys  and  were  as  merry  as 
thieves  in  a  wood.  It  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  strange  to  be  sitting  there  under  the  stars 
in  that  wild  place  taking  possession  of  a  large 
meal  with  a  man  who  did  not  know  my  name  nor 
I  his.  Nothing  is  strange  on  the  veldt !  Besides, 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  known  him  all  my  life,  even  if 
he  did  not  recognise  me.  All  the  same,  I  was 
aware  that  he  never  ceased  to  stare  at  me  intently, 
with  the  little  rag  of  black  hair  hanging  between 
his  blue  eyes.  He  told  me  he  was  riding  across 
country  from  Tuli  to  Fort  George.  He  had  been 
buying  waggons  and  horses  in  the  Transvaal  for 
the  Chartered  Company. 

"I  suppose  you  know  you  have  come  to  this 
part  of  Africa  at  a  very  bad  time?"  he  said. 
"The  Chartered  Company  is  going  to  send  an 
expedition  into  Matabeleland  against  Lobengula. 
Almost  all  the  men  in  the  country  will  be  needed 


4Q  The  Claw 

to  fight,  and  while  they  are  away  in  Matabele- 
land  the  ladies  in  Mashonaland  will  all  be  shut 
up  in  forts.  That  will  not  be  very  interesting. 
It  would  have  been  better  for  you  to  have  post- 
poned your  journey  until  a  little  later." 

"Au  contraire,"  said  I.  "It  is  far  more  in- 
teresting to  be  in  a  country  while  history  is  being 
made  than  to  arrive  afterwards  when  everything 
is  settled  and  dull.  But  why  are  we  going  to  war 
with  Lobengula?" 

He  laughed  at  the  "we"  which  slipped  in 
unconsciously. 

"Ah!  I  see  you  are  one  of  us  already,  so  I  can 
tell  you  all  about  it.  Well,  Loben  has  been  behav- 
ing very  badly  for  a  long  while  Ever  since  the 
Chartered  Company  took  possession  of  Mashona- 
land he  has  been  harassing  us  in  various  ways. 
But  lately  he  has  taken  to  serious  menace.  Large 
impis  of  his  armed  warriors  have  been  raiding 
across  the  border  laid  down  by  agreement  between 
the  two  countries,  murdering  the  Mashonas  who 
are  under  our  protection,  and  taking  up  a  very 
threatening  and  insolent  attitude  to  any  white 
men  who  remonstrate  with  him.  He  has  paid 
no  attention  to  official  remonstrance,  either,  but 
broken  promise  after  promise,  so  that  at  last 
we  have  had  to  take  things  into  our  own  hands. 
If  we  don't  they  '11  wipe  out  every  white  man 
in  Mashonaland  one  of  these  days.  So  we  are 
going  to  invade  them  and  break  their  power  once 
and  for  all.  There  is  a  chance  of  some  interest- 


The  River  Calls  41 

ing  fighting  first,  though,  for  the  Matabele 
are  twenty  thousand  strong,  all  in  fighting 
trim,  and  as  ferocious  as  the  Zulus  from  whom 
they  are  descended.  Now,  are  you  sorry  you  've 
come?" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  laughed.  "Afterwards,  when 
this  is  all  over,  I  may  have  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  Lobengula's  fifty  wives.  That  is  one  of 
my  most  important  reasons  for  coming  out  to 
Africa.  That  and  prowling  lions;  however,  I 
think  I  Ve  had  more  than  enough  of  them." 

He  began  to  laugh. 

"You  won't  find  Lobengula's  wives  very  en- 
chanting, if  you  do  succeed  in  seeing  them;  and 
there  are  only  six,  by  the  way.  But  where  did 
you  get  your  experience  of  lions? " 

"Here!"  said  I,  and  told  him  something  of 
what  I  had  gone  through;  only  something.  I 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  go  into  details 
about  my  terror,  nor  to  tell  him  I  had  fainted. 
I  left  him  to  suppose  that  I  had  been  asleep  when 
he  came  to  camp.  He  looked  at  me  keenly  at 
this  part  of  my  story,  remembering,  I  suppose, 
his  pleasant  remarks  about  women.  But  I  re- 
turned his  gaze  with  frank  eyes. 

"Ah!  I  heard  those  shots,"  he  said  at  last.  "I 
was  about  two  miles  off  then,  and  supposed 
some  one  was  camping  round  here,  but  I  could 
not  locate  them  at  all;  no  sign  or  smell  of  fire 
anywhere;  so  on  finding  the  river  full  I  camped 
here,  ready  to  cross  the  drift  the  first  thing  in 


42  The  Claw 

the  morning.  I  looked  into  the  post-cart,  but 
only  casually,  for  naturally  I  did  n't  expect  any 
one  to  be  in  it.  I  guessed  that  the  driver  had 
locked  himself  in  with  the  mules — they  usually 
do  in  such  circumstances,  but  not  when  there  are 
passengers.  Those  were  not  lions,  by  the  way. 
As  soon  as  I  got  here  I  knew  by  the  behaviour 
of  my  horse  that  there  had  been  beasts  of  some 
kind  about,  and  when  I  had  made  fires  I  looked 
for  spoor  and  found  traces  of  about  half-a-dozen 
hyenas.  They  must  have  been  hungry,  too,  for 
they  had  chewed  the  mule  harness  to  ribbons." 

He  smiled  at  me  gaily,  but  I  felt  myself 
turning  pale. 

"Hyenas!  How  horrible!  How  glad  I  am  I 
did  not  know!  I  'd  much  rather  they  had 
been  lions!" 

"Thank  God  they  were  not,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  'm  afraid  your  revolver  would  not  have  been 
much  use.  Hyenas,  on  the  contrary,  hardly  ever 
touch  a  human  being,  and  are  easily  scared  off." 

"But  they  laugh!"  I  cried,  shuddering,  and  then 
sprang  to  my  feet,  for  the  most  terrifying  noise 
I  had  ever  heard  in  my  life  suddenly  split  the 
stillness  and  rang  around  us.  I  have  heard  lions 
roar  in  the  Zoo,  and  that  is  bad  enough;  but 
the  cry  of  a  caged  lion  is  a  dove-like  call  com- 
pared to  the  awe-inspiring,  mournful,  belching, 
hollow  roar  of  the  king  of  beasts  when  he  makes 
his  presence  known  to  the  wide  and  empty 
veldt.  My  companion  was  on  his  feet  too. 


The  River  Calls  43 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said  quietly,  "but  get 
into  the  cart  again  as  quickly  as  possible." 

I  obeyed  without  the  least  delay,  another 
roar,  closer  at  hand,  considerably  accelerating 
my  steps.  In  a  moment  I  was  back  in  my  old 
place  on  the  floor;  and  he  was  swiftly  untethering 
the  horse  from  the  back  of  the  cart,  to  fasten  it  in 
front,  more  fully  in  the  glare  of  the  fires.  Then 
he  stepped  into  the  driver's  place,  and  half- 
sitting,  half-stooping,  laid  his  rifle  across  the 
splash-board,  right  over  the  horse's  head.  We 
waited. 

"Don't  make  a  sound,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder.  There  was  no  alarm  in  his  voice,  but 
rather  a  kind  of  gay  elation,  and  my  fear  im- 
mediately died  away.  I  began  to  watch  and 
listen  with  interest  for  what  was  to  happen 
next.  There  were  no  more  roars,  only  an  omi- 
nous stillness,  that  was  broken  presently  by  the 
restless  moving  and  shuddering  of  the  horse.  The 
poor  beast  began  to  try  to  break  loose  and  get 
away,  but  its  master  leaning  forward,  spoke  to  it 
in  a  soothing  gentle  voice,  and  the  terrified  crea- 
ture was  presently  quiet,  except  for  an  occasional 
shudder  that  it  could  not  control. 

Silence  again  for  a  time  that  seemed  hours, 
then  at  last  the  click  of  a  broken  twig  that  sounded 
to  my  straining  ears  like  a  pistol  shot.  There 
was  just  the  faintest  suspicion  of  a  rustling 
of  leaves.  An  instant  later  something  in  my 
companion's  intent  gaze  and  attitude  told  me 


44  The  Claw 

that  the  psychological  moment  had  come.  He 
could  see  something,  and  was  taking  aim.  I 
glanced  at  the  dim,  shadowy  mass  of  foliage 
towards  which  his  rifle  pointed,  and  for  one  mo- 
ment saw  nothing.  Then  something  huge  and 
pale  and  massive  came  bounding  high  in  the  air 
out  of  the  shadows,  and  the  horse  cried  out  like 
a  human  being.  The  Martini-Henry  cracked 
twice  and  a  blinding  flash  of  gunpowder  filled 
the  air.  Later  I  heard  my  friend's  voice  speaking 
to  his  leaping  horse  and  as  the  smoke  died  away 
my  dazed  eyes  saw  lying  stretched  between  the 
fires  something  that  had  not  been  there  before. 
The  only  sounds  to  be  heard  were  the  creaking 
of  the  cart  caused  by  the  shudderings  of  the  horse, 
and  the  chattering  of  my  teeth.  I  don't  know 
which  was  the  louder.  But  I  know  that  I 
crouched  beside  the  man's  knee  and  was  grateful 
and  glad  for  one  of  his  strong  brown  hands  on 
mine,  and  his  crakey,  thrilly  voice  saying  close  to 
my  ear: 

"There  is  no  danger.  Only  we  must  be  quiet. 
There 's  probably  another  of  them  about.  I 
should  like  to  pot  him  too. " 

Needless  to  say,  I  sat  still  with  all  my  might. 
The  great  honey-coloured  body  fascinated  my 
eyes,  but  there  was  something  extraordinarily 
reassuring  in  the  scent  of  mingled  gunpowder  and 
tobacco  that  hung  about  the  grey  flannel  sleeve 
so  close  to  me.  We  sat  in  silence  for  what  must 
have  been  nearly  an  hour  and  nothing  happened: 


The  River  Calls  45 

no  more  roars,  no  sound  anywhere  but  the  far 
cry  of  the  jackal,  and  the  rush  of  the  river.  It 
was  my  companion  who  at  last  broke  the  spell, 
speaking  in  a  low,  absent  voice,  almost  like  a  man 
in  a  reverie. 

"So  you  have  come  to  Africa  after  all,  Miss 
Saurin!" 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears  were  not  playing 
me  false.  It  seemed  the  strangest  thing  of  all 
the  strange  things  that  had  come  to  pass  that 
night  that  he  should  know  my  name  and  speak 
it  thus.  He  had  recognised  me  after  all,  then! 
In  the  same  voice  of  gentle  reverie  he  spoke  again, 
staring  not  at  me  but  straight  before  him. 
— and  this  is  the  way  she  receives  you!" 

"You  know  my  name?"  I  faltered. 

"Of  course.  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  forget 
your  face?" 

I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  hot.  I  was  not  unused 
to  hearing  men  say  charming,  flattering  things, 
and  I  knew  very  well  how  to  parry  them.  But 
there  was  something  so  unusual  in  the  quiet 
serenity  of  this  man's  words  and  the  vibration 
of  his  beautiful  voice  that  I  could  not  lightly  turn 
aside  his  strange  answer.  I  am  all  woman,  too, 
and  could  not  refrain  from  feeling  a  little  thrill 
of  pleasure  in  what  he  said.  It  is  surely  some- 
thing rather  sweet  to  be  remembered  for  three 
years  by  a  man  to  whom  one  has  spoken  only 
once,  for  a  few  minutes,  in  a  crowded  ball-room. 

"And  that  dance — I  think  you  remember  the 


46  The  Claw 

dance  we  had  together — and  our  talk  of  Africa. 
You  said  you  would  love  to  come  out  here,  and 
I  told  you  then  you  surely  would.  I  think  you 
must  remember?" 

There  was  something  so  appealing  and  yet 
compelling  in  his  question  that  I  felt  obliged 
to  answer  him  sincerely,  though  such  worldly 
wisdom  as  I  possessed  strongly  counselled  me  to 
do  otherwise. 

"Yes,  I  have  always  remembered,"  I  said,  and 
found  myself  remembering  other  things,  too, 
vividly:  the  way  his  words  had  moved  me,  the 
way  my  lids  had  fallen  under  his  strong  glance. 

"And  you  are  still  Miss  Saurin?  Deirdre 
Saurin?" 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  beauty 
and  gentleness  of  his  voice  as  he  so  unexpectedly 
spoke  my  name.  It  sounded  almost  as  if  he 
were  blessing  me. 

"You  did  not  marry  Herriott  after  all?  But 
you  could  not  have,  or  he  would  be  here.  No  man 
who  married  you  would  ever  leave  your  side. " 

That  was  ridiculous,  of  course.  I  felt  it  was 
ridiculous,  but  he  said  it  so  convincingly  that  I 
almost  believed  it.  In  fact,  I  was  obliged  to 
recognise  that  this  man  was  very  convincing 
indeed.  You  could  not  treat  his  remarks  with 
the  indifference  they  deserved,  even  if  you  wanted 
to.  However,  there  was  one  thing  I  felt  I  ought 
to  make  clear  to  him,  though  it  was  rather  em- 
barrassing to  say  these  things. 


The  River  Calls  47 

"I  think  as  you  know  so  much,"  I  stammered, 
''you  ought  to  know  a  little  more.  I  was  never 
engaged  to  Lord  Herriott. " 

"But  I  was  told  by  two  different  people  that 
night,  both  relatives  of  his,  that  you  were  en- 
gaged; that  the  announcement  was  to  be  made 
immediately." 

"They  had  no  right  to  say  so,"  I  said  firmly. 
"We  were  never  engaged." 

"Will  you  tell  me  that  he  never  asked  you  to 
marry  him?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you  more  than  I  have,"  I  an- 
swered rather  stiffly. 

"And  you  think  it  insolence  on  my  part  to  ask 
so  much?"  His  voice  had  gone  back  to  reverie 
and  his  eyes  to  the  dying  fires.  "Do  not  think 
that,  Miss  Saurin.  Insolence  has  no  place  near 
you  in  my  mind  and  memory.  It  was  no  business 
of  mine  I  suppose  whether  you  refused  Herriott, 
or  why.  In  any  case  I  should  have  left  Ireland 
at  once  as  I  did.  Only — I  wish  to  God  I  had 
known  in  all  these  years." 

I  had  to  realise  at  last  that  this  man  was  making 
love  to  me,  and  that  the  fact  aroused  in  my  heart 
neither  anger  nor  indignation.  I  felt  not  the 
slightest  disposition  to  reprove  him,  but  rather  to 
go  on  sitting  there  for  ever  listening  to  his  strange 
burning  words  and  vibrating  voice.  It  seemed 
to  me  suddenly  that  I  was  listening  to  an  old 
song  I  had  known  all  my  life,  but  had  never  before 
heard  set  to  music.  My  heart  began  to  flutter 


48  The  Claw 

like  a  wild  bird  in  my  breast  and  a  trembling 
thrilled  me  unlike  any  trembling  I  had  known 
through  the  past  hours  of  darkness  and  fear. 
A  faintness  stole  over  my  senses.  I,  too,  had  kept 
my  gaze  straight  before  me  while  we  talked,  but 
now,  while  I  felt  myself  growing  pale  to  the  lips 
with  some  strange  emotion,  I  turned  my  eyes  his 
way  and  found  him  looking  at  me.  Glance 
burnt  glance.  His  blue,  intent  eyes  searching  in 
mine  as  if  for  something  that  was  his.  Mine  read- 
ing in  his — I  know  not  what — something  I  had 
long  known  dimly  but  dared  not  recognise.  In 
that  moment  I  realised  why  I  had  come  to  Africa. 
I  knew  why  I  had  refused  Herriott.  It  was  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  again  this  strange  man  with  the 
voice  that  pulled  at  my  heart-strings  and  the 
burning  eyes  that  searched  in  mine  as  if  for 
something  that  was  his.  And  now,  alone  with 
him  in  this  wild  and  desolate  spot,  where  conven- 
tions and  all  the  superficialities  of  life  fell  sheer 
away,  and  left  us  just  simple  man  and  woman,  I 
was  afraid  of  the  poignant  sweetness  and  wonder 
of  it.  I  was  afraid  for  my  immortal  soul. 

For  the  second  time  that  night,  and  half 
unconsciously,  I  put  up  my  hand,  and  as  do  all 
good  Catholics  in  the  supreme  moments  of  life, 
crossed  myself.  I  hardly  knew  what  I  had 
done  until  I  found  my  right  hand  touching  the 
shoulder  nearest  him  and  almost  as  if  in  answer 
to  my  action,  which  he  could  not  have  failed 
to  observe,  he  lifted  his  hand,  which  still  lay 


The  River  Calls  49 

upon  my  left  hand,  and  pushed  back  from  his  eyes 
the  fallen  streak  of  hair.  Afterwards  he  did  not 
replace  it,  though  mine  still  lay  where  he  left  it. 

"You  are  a  Catholic?"  he  said  abruptly. 

"Yes,  the  Saurins  have  always  been  Catholics," 
I  answered.  Then  a  silence  fell  between  us  that  I 
feared.  For  some  reason  I  did  not  understand, 
I  began,  in  a  voice  at  first  a  little  strained  and 
uncertain,  to  tell  him  of  the  love  there  had  always 
been  in  my  family  for  the  beautiful  old  faith, 
of  how  much  its  forms  and  ceremonies  meant 
to  even  the  most  irreligious  of  us.  I  told  him 
legends  of  long-dead  rakes  and  scamps  among  my 
paternal  ancestors  who,  forsaking  their  sins,  had 
gone  from  their  own  country  to  fight  for  the  faith 
they  loved  in  other  lands.  How  never  a  Saurin 
for  three  centuries  had  died  without  a  scapular 
about  his  throat  and  a  De  profundis  on  his  lips. 
I  told  him  how  my  mother,  coming  of  a  rigid 
Protestant  American  family,  had  yet,  for  love  of 
my  Irish  father,  embraced  his  faith  with  all  the 
fervour  of  the  convert,  and  taught  me  to  love  it 
as  she  did  herself.  I  told  him  things,  I  knew  not 
why,  that  had  never  been  told  out  of  my  family 
before.  Whether  he  was  interested  in  my  facts 
or  the  soft  and  even  flow  of  my  voice  I  cannot  say, 
but  the  sweet  and  dangerous  silence  was  dispersed, 
and  a  kind  of  fragrant  peace  fell  around  us,  cooling 
our  hands  and  quieting  our  hearts. 

"Catholicism  was  the  faith  of  my  fathers,  too," 
he  said  at  last,  "but  I  suppose  we  fell  away  from 


50  The  Claw 

it  through  wandering  far  from  our  own  land.  I 
have  never  practised  Catholicism  or  anything 
else.  What  religion  the  love  of  my  mother  put 
into  my  heart  is  there  still,  and  I  recognise  it 
in  great  moments — at  this  moment — but  oh, 
Lord!  Where  do  these  things  go?  The  clean, 
fair  dreams  of  our  youth,  the  fine  visions  we 
began  to  fight  with,  the  generosity  wide  as  the 
horizon!  All  lost  in  the  scuffle,  buried  under 
the  mud  and  scum.  Do  you  know  that  tag  of 
verse — 

'"In  the  mud  and  scum  of  things 
Something,  something  always  sings?' 

It  is  something,  I  suppose,  in  the  end,  if  we  still 
can  hear  the  singing.  There  is  some  rag  of  grace 
left  in  us,  perhaps,  if  we  can  recognise  a  man 
like  Rhodes  when  we  see  him,  and,  leaving  all,  go 
after  him  into  the  wilderness  to  do  or  die  for 
a  man  with  bigger  dreams  than  our  own — but 
it  is  n't  much,  by  God !  considering  what  dreams 
we  ourselves  set  out  with!" 

He  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have  forgotten 
me,  and  to  be  communing  with  the  desolation 
of  his  own  soul.  I  offered  him  no  word.  Some- 
thing told  me  then,  that  no  woman  can  quite 
comfort  a  man  for  his  lost  dreams.  At  the  best 
she  may  be  able  to  create  others  for  him;  but 
surely  they  are  never  quite  the  same  as  those 
first  dreams  that  had  the  freshness  of  the  morning 


The  River  Calls  51 

on  them.  Even  as  I  mourned  for  him  his  mood 
changed,  and  he  laughed  with  a  laugh  that  turned 
him  into  a  joyous  boy. 

' '  Listen  to  the  river ! ' '  said  he,  laughing.  ' '  Listen 
to  the  jackals  chanting  their  dirge  of  the  empty 
stomach !  Smell  the  rolling  leagues  of  emptiness ! 
Look  at  that  beauty  lying  there  in  the  grass! 
Oh,  I  tell  you,  this  is  good  enough  for  a  man! 
One  can  get  back  some  of  the  old  fair  visions  here. 
One  might  even  go  back  to  the  'gold  for  silver' 
creed  that  Whyte  Melville  put  into  some  of  us 
long  ago!" 

"The  'gold  for  silver'  creed?" 

"Do  you  not  know  your  Bones  and  I ?  They 
were  the  last  of  my  prophets." 

He  began  to  misquote,  laughing  a  little,  but 
without  any  bitterness  at  all  now: 

"Gold  for  silver:  old  lamps  for  new:  stack  your 
capital  in  the  bank  that  in  the  end  pays  cent  for 
cent — the  bank  of  human  kindness,  where  the 
bonds  are  charity,  help  to  the  broken-down,  sym- 
pathy with  the  bust-up,  protection  to  the  weak- 
kneed,  encouragement  to  the  forlorn,  etc.;  and 
afterwards  the  inscription  on  your  tomb  or  in 
some  one's  memory: 

"  'WHAT  HE  SPENT  HE  HAD:  WHAT  HE  SAVED  HE  LOST! 
WHAT  HE  GAVE  HE  HAS.' 

Ah!  what  a  long  time  since  I  heard  those 
words,  and  believed  that  any  one  could  be  such 
a  fool  as  to  try  and  live  up  to  them!" 

4 


52  The  Claw 

"How  can  you  say  that?"  I  said.  "It  is  still 
your  creed.  If  ever  any  one  protected  the  weak- 
kneed  and  encouraged  the  forlorn  you  have  done 
it  to-night. " 

At  that  we  both  began  to  laugh.  The  shadows 
had  fled  from  his  brow,  and  his  face  had  no  more 
marks  on  it  than  Dick's  when  he  and  I  played 
together  as  children.  Indeed,  we  were  both  as 
happy  as  children.  Later  he  stepped  down  from 
the  cart  to  feed  the  fires  and  fetch  my  rugs 
from  where  they  still  lay  on  the  ground.  He 
wrapped  them  round  me,  for  the  air  had  grown 
very  chill,  and  told  me  to  sleep.  And  I  did,  for 
the  heavy  weariness  of  the  small  morning  hours 
had  suddenly  stolen  upon  me. 

When  I  awoke  the  stars  were  pale  in  the  sky,  and 
dawn,  with  pearl  and  purple  and  amber  on  her 
feet,  was  treading  the  distant  hills.  A  long  line 
of  red-legged  birds  streaked  overhead,  calling 
to  each  other  as  they  passed.  The  rush  of  the 
river,  which  could  now  be  plainly  seen  glinting 
between  the  trees,  was  like  music  on  the  air.  A 
cloak  of  silver  dew  lay  over  grass  and  fern  and 
the  massed  foliage  of  the  bush;  and  little  veldt 
flowers  were  lifting  their  pink  faces  to  give  forth, 
a  sweet  scent.  Against  the  faint  rose  and  amber 
of  the  horizon  a  blue  spiral  of  smoke  ascended 
from  a  newly-built  fire,  on  which  the  kettle  was 
already  boiling  for  breakfast.  The  only  grim 
thing  to  be  seen  in  all  that  fair  place  was  the  long, 
honey-coloured  body  of  the  dead  lion,  stretched 


The  River  Calls  53 

upon  the  carpet  of  grass  and  flowers.  His  great 
shaggy  head  lay  amidst  a  mass  of  bright  wild 
lilies:  but  already  little  beetles  and  ants  were 
busy  about  his  blood-reddened  mouth  and  open 
eyes.  It  was  the  only  joyless  thing  to  be  seen, 
but  it  had  no  power  to  sadden  me.  I,  too,  was 
full  of  the  glad  spirit  of  morning,  and  my 
singing  heart  gave  thanks  as  it  had  never  done 
before  for  the  magic  gift  of  life. 


,  CHAPTER  III 
CATS'  CALLS 

"  Originality,  like  beauty,  is  a  fatal  gift." 

ONCE  more  I  was  alone  in  the  coach  with  my 
driver,  moving  onwards  towards  my  destina- 
tion— Fort  Salisbury.  In  an  hour  or  two  I 
should  reach  Fort  George,  which  was  only  a  day 
or  so  from  my  journey's  end.  My  new  driver, 
also  a  Cape  boy,  was  a  big,  honest-looking  fellow 
named  Hendricks,  one  of  the  most  trusted  men 
in  the  coach  service,  and  possessing  no  traits  in 
common  with  the  last  man,  except  a  vocabulary 
and  an  affection  for  "cold  tea."  This  man  had 
been  waiting  at  the  other  side  of  the  river  with 
fresh  mules  and  another  cart  the  morning  after 
my  adventurous  night  on  the  banks  of  the 
Umzingwani.  The  river  had  been  still  too  full 
to  cross  by  cart,  so  a  wire  apparatus  for  slinging 
mails  and  passengers  from  one  bank  to  another 
had  been  brought  into  requisition.  My  new 
friend  and  the  driver  (grown  curiously  meek  and 
submissive  after  I  know  not  what  threats  and 

54 


Cats'  Calls  55 

imprecations  flung  at  him  in  an  unknown  tongue 
when  he  emerged  from  his  fastness  into  the  light 
of  day)  then  engaged  together  in  furthering  a 
nerve-racking  business  of  which  I  was  to  be  the 
chief  victim.  First  the  mails  were  taken  out 
and  divided  into  lots  weighing  about  130  pounds, 
then  each  lot  was  placed  in  a  sort  of  canvas 
bucket  and  slung  across  the  broad  sweeping 
stream  on  a  piece  of  wire  about  the  thickness  of 
a  clothes-line.  When  all  the  mails  were  over, 
and  my  luggage,  I  thought  my  turn  had  come  and 
advanced  with  what  I  hoped  was  a  nonchalant 
air  (though  my  knees  were  trembling  under  me) 
to  my  fate.  But  the  blue-eyed  man  was  already 
in  the  bucket  and  whizzing  across  the  stream. 
Half-way  over  the  wire  sagged  hideously,  and 
the  sack  touched  the  water.  I  closed  my  eyes 
with  a  sick  feeling,  and  when  I  opened  them  again 
it  was  to  see  him  just  starting  to  recross  .  As  he 
jumped  from  the  bucket  on  my  side  of  the  river 
once  more,  I  realised  that  he  had  been  trying 
the  wire  for  me.  Then  my  nonchalance  was  not 
all  assumed,  as  I  took  my  turn  in  the  horrible 
contrivance,  for  what  had  carried  him  would 
surely  bear  me  safely.  All  the  same,  it  was  sicken- 
ing to  feel  the  slither  of  the  bag  on  the  wire,  to 
see  the  grey-yellow  water  shining  beneath  me 
smooth  and  waveless  as  a  mighty  torrent  of  cod- 
liver  oil,  to  experience  the  sag  in  midstream  and 
the  extra  jerk  of  the  wire  to  overcome  it.  I  con- 
fess that  at  that  moment  I  was  not  captain  of 


56  The  Claw 

my  soul.  I  was  not  captain  of  anything,  even 
the  canvas  bag!  I  should  have  given  up  the 
ghost  if  I  had  not  known  that  a  strong  brown 
hand  was  on  the  wire,  and  blue  keen  eyes  watching 
every  movement.  I  think  it  was  the  most 
effarouchant  of  all  my  experiences,  and  I  was  still 
rather  limp  when  he,  having  crossed  once  more, 
came  to  me  standing  by  the  new  post-cart.  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked  in 
surprise. 

"Going  back  across  the  river,"  said  he.  "I 
have  just  come  over  to  say  good-bye." 

"Are  you  not  coming  on  too?" 

"Not  just  yet.  First  I  have  a  little  business 
to  transact  on  the  other  side.  Later,  I  shall  take 
my  horse  and  swim  a  drift  I  know  of  about  three 
miles  lower  down. " 

I  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  What  busi- 
ness could  he  possibly  have  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river,  unless  it  was  to  skin  the  lion?  Then 
I  suddenly  remembered  his  threatening  words 
about  the  driver  the  night  before,  and  the  man's 
meek  mien  that  morning. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  beat  the  driver," 
I  said  quickly. 

"Good-bye,"  said  he,  still  holding  out  his  hand. 

It  naturally  annoyed  me  to  have  my  remarks 
ignored  in  that  way.  I  looked  at  him  coldly. 

"You  will  please  not  hurt  the  man  on  my 
account,"  I  said  stiffly. 


Cats'  Calls  57 

"Then  I  must  hurt  him  on  my  own, "  he  calmly 
replied.  "These  men  have  to  be  taught  their 
duty  to  white  ladies. " 

It  vexed  me  curiously  to  think  that  he  should 
so  resent  having  been  left  alone  with  me  all 
night  that  he  must  needs  punish  the  driver  for  it. 

"I  hate  brutality,"  I  said.  "The  thought  of 
one  man  hitting  another  makes  me  feel  sick.  I 
think  you  are  very  vindictive." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  he,  but  there  was  not  the 
faintest  trace  of  sorrow  anywhere  about  him;  in 
fact,  he  was  smiling  me  hardily  in  the  eyes  and 
I  saw  that  he  had  every  intention  of  beating  the 
man  in  spite  of  my  wishes.  I  turned  away  from 
him  to  hide  the  vexation  that  surged  through  me, 
and  began  to  arrange  my  rugs  in  the  cart,  but 
when  I  had  finished  he  was  still  there,  and  with 
something  further  to  remark. 

"Miss  Saurin,  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me 
for  saying  that  it  would  be  unwise  of  you  to 
let  any  one  know  that  your  last  night's  vigil 
included  my  society. " 

That  was  really  too  much!  I  stared  at  him 
haughtily,  utterly  taken  aback  by  such  a  remark 
and  its  inference.  But  he  met  my  eyes  quite 
unabashed.  It  occurred  to  me  at  the  moment 
that  he  had  probably  never  been  abashed  in  his 
life,  and  the  idea  did  not  please  me. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  do  not  quite  understand  you," 
I  said  at  last  in  a  frozen  voice,  "but  if  it  is  that 
you  do  not  wish  me  to  boast  of  having  made 


58  The  Claw 

your  acquaintance — I  can  assure  you  that  you 
need  have  no  fear." 

Even  his  hardened  pelt  was  pierced  at  last, 
though  he  tried  to  hide  the  fact  under  a  sardonic 
grin  that  did  not  become  him  in  the  least.  He 
threw  back  his  rag  of  black  hair — a  sign  of  battle 
I  was  beginning  to  recognise. 

"Hardly  that.  I  was  merely  proffering  a  little 
friendly  advice,  but  I  remember  now  that  you 
do  not  take  kindly  to  advice — or  you  would  not 
be  here."  He  grinned  again,  and  I  flushed  with 
anger.  After  the  terrors  of  the  past  night  to 
fling  the  advice  of  people  like  Elizabet  von  Stohl 
into  my  teeth! 

"I  believe  myself  perfectly  capable  of  minding 
my  own  affairs,"  I  said.  "Further,  I  very  much 
resent  your  inference  that  people  would  dare  to 
talk  scandal  about  me. " 

"Evidently  you  do  not  know  people  as  well 
as  I  do." 

I  merely  looked  over  his  head. 

"Certainly  you  will  allow  that  I  know  my 
own  reputation  better." 

There  was  an  opening  for  a  dart,  and  I  flung 
one  with  all  my  might. 

"That  is  a  matter  that  does  not  interest  me. 
I  do  not  even  know  your  name,  and  probably 
never  shall." 

But  do  you  think  that  crushed  him?     No! 

"Oh,  you  will  hear  it,"  he  said  with  his  careless 
smile,  "  'blown  back  upon  the  breeze  of  fame,' 


Cats'  Calls  59 

perhaps — of  a  kind.  In  any  case  we  are  bound 
to  meet  again." 

"Oh,  will  it  be  necessary?"  I  said,  driven  to 
open  rudeness  by  his  imperturbability,  which  I 
considered  very  much  like  insolence.  "Will  it 
really  be  necessary  if  I  thank  you  now  for — for 
the  services  you  have  been  so  extremely  kind 
as  to  render  me?" 

His  withers  remained  unwrung. 

"You  cannot  escape  meeting  even  your  open 
enemies  in  this  country.  And  it  will  indeed  be 
necessary  to  me,  even  if  I  thank  you  now  for  the 
most  wonderful  night  of  my  life. " 

Without  waiting  for  any  newly-barbed  darts 
I  might  or  might  not  have  had  ready,  he  swiftly 
departed,  leaving  one  last  hardy  blue  smile  in 
my  eyes.  A  moment  later  he  was  slithering 
across  the  river  on  the  screeching,  wriggling  wire. 


We  had  left  the  bare,  bleak  kops  and  tall  strange 
trees  of  Bechuanaland  far  behind  now,  and  had 
crossed  the  last  of  its  wild  and  fearful  rivers. 
Everywhere  about  us  stretched  level  country, 
which  gave  a  curious  impression  of  the  sea,  for 
the  thick,  hay-like  grass,  bleached  almost  to 
whiteness  and  as  high  as  a  man's  waist,  swayed 
perpetually  like  pale  waves.  Even  when  the 
land  seems  a  heated  brazen  bowl  and  the  upper 
air  is  faint  and  heavy  with  breathlessness  the 
veldt  grass  has  some  hidden  air,  some  "  wind 


fc>  The  Claw 

from  a  lost  country,"  flitting  amongst  it  making 
it  sway  and  gently  whisper. 

Patches  of  trees  grew  against  the  horizon,  but 
they  were  short  and  scrubby  and  in  the  nature 
of  "bush,"  though  occasionally  one  was  to  be 
seen  by  itself,  sprayed  like  an  ostrich  feather 
upon  the  skyline.  Others,  of  a  singularly 
gnarled  squat  type,  sent  all  their  branches  up 
to  a  certain  height  and  then  flattened  them  out 
and  wove  them  together  so  that  the  top  of  the 
tree  presented  the  appearance  of  a  strong,  but 
rather  stubbly,  spring-mattress. 

Far  away  on  the  edge  of  the  landscape,  never 
seeming  to  come  nearer  or  recede  farther,  was 
the  usual  line  of  amethyst  hills.  Nearer  hills 
were  saffron  coloured,  and  some  turning  pale 
pink  in  the  evening  light.  Everywhere  the  eye 
was  feasted  with  colour.  Sard-green  bushes 
stretched  branches  like  candelabra  high  above 
the  pale  grass,  and  from  each  branch  sprouted 
forth  flowers  that  were  like  leaping  scarlet  and 
yellow  flames.  Creepers  that  had  great  black- 
pupilled  crimson  eyes  hung  from  trees ;  and  purple 
clematis,  tangled  with  "old  man's  beard"  and 
some  waxen  white  flower  that  gave  forth  an 
odour  like  opopanax,  dripped  and  clung  from 
huge  rocks  that,  standing  alone,  looked  as  though 
they  had  jerked  themselves  loose  from  some 
mighty  mountain  of  the  moon,  and  dropped 
abruptly  into  the  silence  and  solitude  of  this  wild 
place.  Sometimes  an  enormous  boulder  with  a 


Cats'  Calls  61 

massive  flat  top  would  be  balanced  on  a  single 
narrow  point,  showing  like  a  miniature  Table 
Mountain  set  amongst  seas  of  swaying  grass. 
I  imagined  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  sit  on 
one  of  them,  high  above  the  dust  and  the  un- 
fragrant  odour  of  the  mules,  but  the  rocky  sides 
looked  steep  and  inaccessible;  and  my  fate  was 
still  to  swaggle  wearily  across  the  landscape. 

I  was  so  tired  that  even  the  glorious  hues  of 
sunset  could  not  comfort  my  soul.  I  drank 
them  in,  it  is  true,  but  I  would  rather  at  that  time 
have  had  a  cup  of  tea.  My  skin  was  parched 
with  heat  and  dust,  and  I  was  wearied  to  death 
of  being  bumped  and  banged  and  sitting  crumpled 
up  in  a  ball. 

The  driver  had  put  back  the  hood  of  the  cart 
so  that  we  might  get  what  air  was  going,  but 
when  suddenly  some  large,  drops  of  rain  began 
to  fall  on  me  I  felt,  like  Job,  that  my  sorrows 
were  too  many. 

"Driver!"  I  cried,  "you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  it  is  now  going  to  rain!" 

"Ach!  That's  nixney,"  he  replied.  "We'll 
be  in  Fort  George  before  ten  minutes.  See  the 
lights?  Vacht  till  I  wake  them  up." 

He  produced  the  post-horn,  and  I  hastily 
stopped  my  ears,  but  that  did  not  prevent  me 
from  hearing  the  series  of  frightful  blares  that 
he  gave  forth.  The  noise  cheered  the  mules, 
and  they  took  heart  of  grace  and  threw  them- 
selves into  a  last  desperate  run.  The  road  became 


62  The  Claw 

smoother  and  the  barking  of  dogs  could  be  heard. 
I  slipped  on  my  coat  and  tied  the  ends  of  my 
veil  under  my  chin  into  a  big  enough  bow  to 
hide  behind,  for  I  had  learnt  with  diminishing 
enthusiasm  what  it  meant  to  be  an  occupant  of  the 
mail-coach,  arriving  in  a  small  township  in  the 
African  wilds.  I  well  knew  that  every  man, 
woman,  and  dog  in  the  place  would  be  there  to 
meet  and  examine  me  with  curiosity.  I  rather 
liked  it  at  first,  when  I  could  still  contrive  to  be 
fresh  and  uncrumpled  after  a  day  amongst  the 
mail-bags.  But  after  a  fortnight  in  one  gown, 
my  face  decorated  with  tan  and  mosquito  bites, 
and  absolutely  a  crack  in  my  best  lip  (the  top 
one,  of  course,  though  the  other  one  is  charming, 
too)  I  naturally  did  not  feel  ardent  about  meeting 
a  lot  of  people.  I  held  a  hasty  consultation  with 
the  driver  between  his  yells  at  the  mules. 

"You  say  there  is  a  good  hotel  here,  Hendricks?" 

"Yah,  Miss  .  .  .  there  's  the  Queen's  .  .  .  and 

Swears's  Hotel  .  .  .  Mr.  Swears  is  a  very  good 

Baas  .  .  .  keeps  a  very  nice  bar,  and  a  good 

brand  of  dop." 

Upon  this  warm  recommendation  of  the  man 
with  the  profane  name  I  instantly  decided  to  go 
to  the  Queen's,  and  ordered  him  to  drive  me 
there  as  soon  as  we  got  into  the  town.  But  he 
argued  that  he  must  go  to  the  post-office  and 
discharge  the  mails,  so  then  I  knew  there  was 
no  hope  for  me.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to 
bless  Heaven  for  such  small  mercies  as  chiffon- 


Cats'  Calls  63 

veiling,  darkness,  and  a  drizzle  of  hot  rain  that 
might  keep  the  curious  away.  But,  regardless 
of  such  trifles,  there  was  the  expectant  crowd 
arranged  before  the  post-office.  Dimly  I  de- 
scried about  fifty  people,  most  of  them  men,  as 
usual,  but  I  could  hear  women's  voices  and  laugh- 
ter. I  tried  to  hide  behind  the  mail-bags,  but 
Hendricks  began  to  seize  them  and  fling  them 
forth  with  a  splendid  sang-froid  into  the  road. 
Suddenly  I  heard  my  name  spoken  in  a  woman's 
voice — a  very  languid,  weary  voice. 

"Where  is  your  passenger,  Hendricks — Miss 
Saurin?  Did  n't  she  come?" 

I  knew  then  it  was  no  use  hiding  any  longer. 
Dick  had  evidently  been  kind  enough  to  ask 
some  one  to  meet  me.  Bother  his  kindness! 
I  leaned  out,  swathed  in  chiffon,  and  said  more 
sweetly  than  I  felt: 

"I  am  Miss  Saurin." 

A  woman  mounted  on  the  cart  step  and  peered 
in  at  me,  and  to  my  astonishment  I  recognised 
my  sister-in-law. 

"Judy!"  I  cried  in  astonishment. 

"Oh  Deirdre!  how  could  you  come?  Dick 
has  been  almost  out  of  his  mind  with  worry 
about  you,  wiring  to  me  all  day  long  for  news. 
What  makes  you  think  you  will  be  amused  up 
here?" 

This  was  not  the  kind  of  welcome  I  had  expected 
after  travelling  five  or  six  thousand  miles  to  make 
a  visit! 


64  The  Claw 

"I  thought  you  lived  in  Salisbury,"  I  said 
rather  flatly. 

"So  we  do.  But  several  of  us  came  down  here 
for  a  change  of  air,  and  now  the  Company  won't 
let  us  go  back  because  of  the  threatened  trouble 
with  Lobengula. " 

"Is  Dick  all  right?" 

"Oh,  quite;  but  he  couldn't  get  away.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it  presently.  Are  you  going 
to  get  down  here,  or  let  Hendricks  drive  you  to 
my  hut?" 

"Oh,  do  you  live  in  a  hut,  Judy?  How  de- 
lightful! I'm  longing  to  live  in  one.  No,  I'd 
rather  not  get  down  here.  You  direct  the  driver 
where  to  go." 

She  dropped  from  the  step,  and  I  heard  her 
talking  in  her  languid  voice  to  the  people  all 
round  and  giving  directions  to  the  driver,  who 
was  still  slinging  mail-bags  and  handing  out 
packages  to  people  who  all  peered  in  and  tried 
to  get  glimpses  of  me.  There  was  an  enormous 
amount  of  chatter  and  laughing,  and  a  man, 
presumably  the  postmaster,  was  making  a  terrible 
scene  with  Hendricks  because  a  mail-bag  was 
missing.  But  Hendricks  was  impervious  to  in- 
sult. He  merely  replied: 

"I  drive  Zeederberg's  mules,  don't  I?  Well! 
What  you  asking  me  about  the  scarlet  mail-bag 
for?  Allemagte!" 

A  stream  of  wicked  words  flowed  eloquently 
from  his  lips,  English  and  Dutch  all  mixed  up 


Cats'  Calls  65 

together  and  sounding  like  successive  explosions 
of  bombshells.  However,  there  was  some  one 
in  the  crowd  who  did  not  approve  of  Hendricks's 
vocabulary  at  all: 

"Stop  that,  Hendricks.  What  do  you  mean?" 
a  voice  demanded. 

Hendricks  was  instantly  silent,  and  having 
at  last  emptied  his  cart  of  all  but  me  and  my 
luggage,  he  grabbed  the  reins  sullenly  and  drove 
off  muttering  to  himself: 

"I  drive  Zeederberg's  mules,  don't  I?"  with 
some  phrases  appended  which  startled  even 
the  mules.  Judy  had  told  him  to  drive  straight 
to  her  hut,  but  he  pulled  up  first  at  Swears's  and 
got  a  drink  of  soup  in  a  glass;  at  least  he  called 
it  a  "soopie,"  though  the  aroma  that  reached  me 
was  not  of  soup  at  all,  but  the  same  old  black- 
bottle,  cold-tea  aroma  that  I  had  known  all  the 
way  up,  and  that  would  for  ever  be  associated 
in  my  mind  with  South  African  scenery. 

Judy's  hut  was  made  of  mud  and  thatch,  like 
the  rest  of  those  I  had  seen  in  all  the  other  town- 
ships, only  to  my  disappointment  it  was  not  round 
like  a  beehive,  but  low  and  long — rather  like  a 
thatched  barn  with  a  verandah  to  it.  But  the 
front  door  stood  open  and  I  could  see  into  a 
sitting-room  that  looked  homelike  and  cosy  under 
the  rays  of  a  rose-red  lamp. 

Judy  came  out  at  once,  and  three  natives 
appeared  behind  her,  eyeing  me  curiously  and 
shyly. 


56  The  Claw 

"The  boys  will  bring  in  your  things,  dear.  How 
tired  you  must  be !  Do  come  in.  I  have  ordered 
something  for  you  to  eat  at  once,  and  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  and  Mrs.  Brand  and  Miss 
Cleeve  and  Mrs.  Valetta  have  all  come  to  welcome 
you,  too.  They're  all  Salisburyites. " 

"How  sweet  of  them,"  I  said  crossly.  I 
thought  they  might  very  well  have  postponed 
their  welcome  until  the  next  day.  Neither  did 
they  look  particularly  ardent  as  Judy  introduced 
them.  They  touched  hands  languorously  and 
sank  back  into  their  chairs,  fanning  themselves 
with  palm-leaf  fans  and  gazing  piercingly  at  me. 
I  blessed  the  god  of  chiffons  once  more  and  retired 
into  the  dimmest  corner  I  could  find.  It  was 
quite  a  big  room,  pretty  and  odd,  and  had  been 
furnished  and  arranged  (as  I  afterwards  learned) 
by  the  Native  Commissioner  for  his  wife  who 
was  coming  from  England  very  shortly.  He  had 
lent  it  in  the  meanwhile  to  Judy  and  the  lady 
I  had  last  been  introduced  to — Mrs.  Valetta. 
All  the  panoply  of  native  warfare  was  displayed 
upon  the  walls:  shields,  knives,  assegais,  head- 
plumes,  and  bracelets;  besides  much-coloured 
bead-work,  snuff-boxes,  and  curious  gourds. 
The  chairs  were  covered  with  beautiful  fur 
rugs,  called  karrosses,  and  lion  and  wild-cat 
skins  lay  upon  the  floor. 

I  longed  and  prayed  that  Judy  would  take  me 
away  at  once  to  bed,  or,  failing  that,  would  let 
me  at  least  go  and  remove  one  of  my  many  coats 


Cats'  Calls  67 

of  dust,  but  she  pushed  me  into  a  chair, 
saying : 

"Here  is  your  tray,  dear.  Now  do  take  off 
your  veil  and  eat  something." 

I  was  obliged  to  do  as  she  asked  with  as  much 
grace  as  I  could  summon:  but  the  dormant  cat 
which  is  in  every  woman  began  to  wake  up  in 
me  and  sharpen  its  claws;  for  all  round  about  me 
in  the  room  I  began  to  hear  the  soft  and  gentle 
purring  of  other  felines,  and  in  eyes  that  raked 
my  sun-flushed  face  and  disarranged  hair  (grey 
eyes  and  brown,  Persian  blue  and  an  odd  shade 
of  green)  I  recognised  the  same  expression  I 
had  often  seen  in  the  eyes  of  our  big  tortoise-shell 
cat,  Elaine,  when  she  was  stalking  a  bird  in  the 
garden. 

There  was  antagonism  in  the  air.  As  I  sat 
amongst  the  kaffir  curios  before  an  amazing 
tea-tray  I  felt  it.  For  some  reason  these  women 
who  had  come  to  welcome  me  resented  my  advent 
and  were  maliciously  inclined  towards  me.  I 
am  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  mental  atmosphere 
and  I  felt  it.  Even  Judy  was  not  really  friendly. 
She  had  changed  very  much  since  I  had  last  seen 
her.  A  peevish  look  hovered  round  her  mouth 
and  all  her  brightness  and  dash  seemed  to  have 
been  swallowed  up  in  a  great  languor. 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  a  little,  soft  kitten 
of  a  woman  with  striped  grey  eyes  and  the  softest, 
whitest  paws  in  the  world,  reached  out  and  gave 
jme  the  first  scratch. 


68  The  Claw 

"Your  complexion  is  spoiled  for  ever,  Miss 
Saurin.  When  any  one  with  your  peculiar  shade 
of  mahogany-coloured  hair  gets  so  badly  sun- 
burnt as  that  the  skin  never  recovers.  I  am 
awfully  sorry  for  you."  She  looked  perfectly 
delighted. 

"And  your  nose  will  always  be  subject  to  sun- 
blisters  after  this.  Wretched,  isn't  it?"  Miss 
Cleeve  said  this. 

I  stared  at  them  both,  in  surprise  and  indigna- 
tion. My  hair  is  not  mahogany-coloured  at  all, 
but  exactly  like  a  mass  of  crushed  wallflowers, 
and  I  am  extremely  fond  of  my  nose,  which  is 
small  and  pale  and  distinguished.  It  may  at 
that  time  have  been  faintly  sunburnt,  but  cer- 
tainly there  was  no  slightest  sign  of  a  blister  on 
it.  Miss  Cleeve  herself  had  one  of  those  wide- 
nostrilled  noses  that  are  called  by  their  owners 
artistic,  but  which  /  consider  degenerate. 

"Oh,  every  one  loses  their  good  looks  in  this 
desolate  place,"  said  Judy.  "It  is  a  truly  awful 
country,  isn't  it,  Constance?" 

Constance  was  Mrs.  Brand,  a  plump,  tan-col- 
oured woman  with  a  silent  manner  and  a  leathery 
skin.  She  had  so  far  given  no  sign  of  life, 
but  she  now  made  a  graceful  though  brief  con- 
tribution to  the  conversation. 

"Rotten!" 

She  then  beat  a  spot  of  dust  off  her  skirt  with 
a  riding-crop  she  held  in  her  hand,  stuck  out  her 
boots  and  stared  at  them.  I  observed  that  they 


Cats'  Calls  69 

were  riding-boots  of  the  kind  that  finish  somewhere 
near  the  throat,  and  I  thought  how  very  hot  and 
uncomfortable  they  must  be  for  evening  wear. 
She  was  evidently  eccentric,  for  my  eye  me- 
chanically travelling  upwards  made  the  further 
discovery  that  she  was  dressed  in  a  riding-habit. 
Certainly  it  fitted  her  as  though  it  had  been 
painted  on  her.  But  what  an  odd  garment  in 
which  to  make  an  evening  call! 

It  is  quite  simple  for  plump  women  to  have 
well-fitting  clothes.  All  that  is  necessary  is  to 
have  the  things  made  tight  enough — the  plump- 
ness does  the  rest.  But  I  have  noticed  that  a 
silent  manner  nearly  always  accompanies  that 
kind  of  good  figure.  Women  who  have  it  do  not 
seem  to  have  any  desire  to  talk,  and  when  they 
do  it  is  rather  crossly — almost  as  if  they  had 
indigestion.  They  are  also  very  fond  of  sitting 
down. 

It  is  the  graceful,  curvy  woman  who  has  a 
bad  time  at  her  dressmaker's,  being  fitted  and 
fitted  and  fitted.  Personally,  I  did  not  own  a 
rag  that  had  n't  cost  me  hours  of  weary  standing 
and  having  pins  stuck  in  me  before  a  mirror. 

The  behabited  lady  had  transformed  the  glances 
of  her  sulky  eyes  from  her  boots  to  me  with  such 
a  disagreeable  expression  in  them  that  I  could  n't 
help  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  tell 
her  these  things.  In  the  meantime,  Miss  Cleeve 
was  speaking  again. 

"I  can't  think  what  any  one  wants  up  here," 


70  The  Claw 

she  said,  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  ennui.  I 
looked  at  her  keenly,  for  I  had  heard  her  name 
on  my  journey  up.  At  that  time  girls  were  not 
plentiful  in  Mashonaland;  in  fact,  Miss  Cleeve 
had  so  far  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  the 
only  one  in  the  country.  People  had  hinted  to 
me  that  she  would  not  regard  my  arrival  with 
ardour,  and  I  could  n't  imagine  why.  Personally, 
I  am  fond  of  other  girls,  and  think  them  ever  so 
much  nicer  than  married  women,  who  get  most 
frightfully  tiresome  with  their  stupid  airs  of 
mystery  and  superiority.  Just  as  though  any  one 
could  n't  be  married  if  they  wanted  to !  I  think 
it  requires  far  more  cleverness  in  a  charming 
girl  to  keep  unmarried. 

Annabel  Cleeve  had  been  described  to  me  as 
"not  exactly  pretty  but  extremely  fascinating"; 
and  it  was  further  said  of  her  that  she  could 
marry  almost  any  man  in  the  country  if  she 
wanted  to.  But  as  I  said  before  I  did  n't  think 
that  so  wonderfully  clever. 

Her  complexion  appeared  to  be  pale,  dusky, 
mysterious,  everything  that  is  romantic;  but  she 
had  her  back,  quite  by  accident  of  course,  to 
the  rose-red  lamp,  so  it  was  rather  difficult  to 
tell.  Only  I  have  known  those  romantic  lamp- 
light complexions  to  bear  in  the  daylight  an 
extraordinary  resemblance  to  Indian  curry.  I 
could  n't  see  her  eyes  very  well,  but  I  afterwards 
discovered  that  they  were  a  pretty  though  rather 
cold  grey.  It  was  a  pity  that  she  always  kept 


Cats'  Calls  71 

them  half  closed,  for  it  gave  her  a  rather  blase 
air.  Like  so  many  chic  girls  she  had  n't  any 
girlishness  at  all  about  her;  it  seemed  to  have  all 
been  swallowed  up  in  chic.  Certainly  her  hat 
was  very  clever. 

Mrs.  Valetta  was  the  only  one  in  the  room  who 
had  not  yet  tried  her  claws  on  me,  the  reason 
evidently  being  that  she  was  too  tired. 

She  was  a  wicked-looking  woman  with  weary 
manners.  Even  her  coat  and  skirt  hung  on  her 
as  though  it  was  worn  out  with  fatigue,  although 
it  was  really  quite  smart.  After  saying  "De 
do?"  to  me  she  had  sunk  with  a  Mrs.-Pat- 
Campbellish  air  into  a  low  chair,  and  closed  her 
eyes  as  though  hoping  it  was  the  last  act  she 
need  perform  on  earth.  It  was  she  who  had 
the  Persian-blue  eyes;  and  she  wore  a  felt  hat 
slouched  over  them  and  fastened  up  at  the  side 
with  a  B.  B.  Police  badge. 

Quant-d-moi,  I  was  not  at  this  time  at  all 
smart.  It  is  true  that  my  Panama  hat  had  come 
from  Scotts,  my  grey  velvet-corduroy  coat  and 
skirt  had  Lucile:  rue  de  Rivoli  in  gold  letters  on 
its  waist  belt,  and  my  shoes  and  stockings  bore 
the  stamp  of  the  good  Peter  Yap.  Nevertheless, 
I  was  not  smart.  Africa's  sunshine,  dust,  mail- 
bags,  winds,  rains,  grass-ticks,  mosquitoes,  and 
mules  had  done  evilly  unto  me  and  my  clothes, 
and  my  appearance  had  not  the  original  charm 
and  freshness  peculiar  to  it.  Wherefore  I  felt 
very  much  out  of  tune  with  the  world  in  general, 


72  The  Claw 

and  most  particularly  with  these  ladies  who 
scrutinised  me  with  such  curiosity  and  pene- 
tration. 

If  they  had  shown  the  smallest  scrap  of  en- 
thusiasm or  pleasure  it  would  have  been  different. 
But  no:  there  they  sat,  watchful  and  grim  as 
man-eaters.  With  the  exception  of  the  leathery- 
faced  one,  of  whom  I  afterwards  heard  that  she 
ate,  drank,  slept  and  had  her  being  on  horseback, 
and  never  wore  anything  but  riding-kit,  they  were 
all  imperturbably  cool  and  fresh  in  light  dresses, 
though  I  thought  it  curious  that  no  one  wore  a 
dinner  gown.  Perhaps  it  was  because  they  had 
not  dined,  but  only  "partaken  of  a  meal"  like 
the  remarkable  one  which  stood  before  me  on 
a  tray.  Judy  had  begged  me  to  excuse  it,  saying 
that  dinner  had  been  over  for  some  two  hours 
and  the  boys  had  been  obliged  to  scratch  up  a 
meal  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  me.  It  had 
that  appearance.  There  was  a  very  hard-boiled 
egg,  a  box  of  sardines,  a  dish  of  terribly  declasse 
potatoes,  and  a  cup  of  tea.  Accidentally,  there 
was  also  a  plate  of  tomatoes,  freshly  plucked,  with 
a  bloom  on  them  like  a  mist  on  a  ripe  plum,  and 
for  these  I  was  truly  grateful.  I  cut  them  into 
slices  and  with  my  bread-and-butter  made  little 
sandwiches  which  assuaged  my  hunger  and  thirst 
at  the  same  time. 

The  grey-eyed  kitten  again  addressed  me: 
"Dear   Miss   Saurin,   have   you   brought   any 
poudre  de  riz  with  you?     No  one  here  has  any- 


Cats'  Calls  73 

thing  but  Fuller's  Earth,  and  you  know  how  greasy 
that  makes  your  nose." 

I  had  no  such  knowledge.  However,  I  answered 
civilly: 

"Yes,  I  have  poudre  de  riz  and  every  kind  of 
thing  made  by  Rimmel  and  Piver  and  Guerlain. 
My  sister-in-law  wrote  me  that  these  things  were 
hard  to  get  here,  so  I  brought  bagsfull. " 

An  electric  wave  of  enthusiasm  passed  round 
the  room,  and  for  a  moment  Judy  looked  almost 
rapturous,  until  I  added,  "They  are  all  with  my 
luggage,  which  is  coming  up  by  waggon." 

"What ! "  cried  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe.  Miss 
Cleeve  bit  her  lips,  and  Mrs.  Valetta,  looking 
wickeder  than  ever,  closed  her  eyes  apparently 
for  ever.  Mrs.  Brand  was  the  only  one  who  re- 
mained unmoved,  but  it  was  clear  that  her 
tanned  face  and  a  powder-puff  had  never  made 
acquaintance.  Judy  gave  a  little  cold  laugh. 

"It  might  have  been  just  as  well  to  stuff  a  box 
of  poudre  de  riz  in  your  pocket." 

"Dear  Judy,  my  pockets  were  stuffed  with 
the  necessaries  of  life — tea,  sugar,  soap,  sometimes 
even  bits  of  meat;  they  called  it  biltong,  but  it 
was  really  nothing  more  or  less  than  dried  meat." 

"Disgusting!"  murmured  Miss  Cleeve.  Evi- 
dently she  had  never  suffered  the  exigencies  of  a 
coach  journey.  She  must  have  arrived  by  balloon. 
They  glanced  coldly  at  my  battered  dress-cases 
and  hat-boxes  which  stood  piled  by  the  door. 

"All  packed  to  the  brim  with  absolute  neces- 


74  The  Claw 

sities, "  I  said.  "The  post-cart  regulations  al- 
lowed one  to  carry  exactly  sixty-four  pounds.  Of 
course  I  carried  far  more,  but  they  charged  me 
eight  pounds,  six  shillings,  and  fourpence  excess. 
The  transport-waggon  people  promised  to  have 
my  trunks  in  Salisbury  in  four  weeks'  time, 
and  I  thought  if  I  stayed  about  six  weeks  that 
would  give  me  some  fresh  gowns  to  wear  here, 
and  an  outfit  to  return  in." 

In  the  smile  which  greeted  my  words  as  I 
explained  this  to  them  I  could  not  but  recognise 
grimness  as  well  as  malice.  The  horsewoman 
proffered  some  gloomy  information. 

"Your  things  will  take  six  months  to  get  up 
here — if  they  ever  arrive  at  all. " 

"Why,  what  is  likely  to  happen  to  them?" 

She  shrugged,  and  spoke  in  jerks. 

"Wet  season  coming  on.  Transport  drivers 
take  ten  times  longer  than  in  dry  season.  Get 
stuck  in  mud-holes.  Sit  for  weeks  on  river  banks 
waiting  for  floods  to  go  down.  Roads  sometimes 
so  bad  they  abandon  their  loads.  Leave  them 
piled  up  by  the  roadside  for  next  waggons  to  bring. 
Next  waggons  usually  open  them  and  help  them- 
selves to  what  they  like  best.  Kaffirs  also  come 
and  help  themselves.  Once  when  I  was  travelling 
with  my  husband  amongst  the  kaffir  kraals  in 
Bechuanaland  I  came  across  a  native  girl  wearing 
a  pink  satin  ball-gown  that  I  had  last  seen  at 
my  dressmaker's  in  Kimberley  and  which  had  been 
dispatched  by  waggon  with  a  lot  of  other  things. " 


Cats'  Calls  75 

I  could  not  help  wondering  who  would  have 
looked  funnier  in  the  pink  satin  ball- gown- 
Mrs.  Brand  or  the  black  girl. 

"Yes,  and  then  there  is  the  sad  tale  of  Mrs. 
Marriott,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe, 
gazing  at  me  with  her  striped  eyes.  "She  came 
up  here  to  be  married,  bringing  her  wedding- 
gown  and  a  few  things  with  her  in  the  coach, 
while  her  trousseau  and  the  other  things  for  the 
house  were  sent  by  waggon  in  three  enormous 
cases.  Well,  the  coach  had  an  accident  crossing 
a  river,  and  she  lost  everything  she  had  with  her, 
and  arrived  here  in  a  grey  skirt  and  a  pink  print 
shirt  which  she  was  married  in.  That  was  six 
months  ago — but  if  you  get  up  early  enough 
in  the  morning  you  will  meet  Mrs.  Marriott 
doing  her  shopping  before  any  one  is  about,  still 
wearing  her  grey  skirt  and  pink  print  blouse. " 

"Impossible!"   I  cried,  petrified. 

"Well,  there  you  are!  Her  three  packing 
cases  never  arrived,  that's  all." 

"But  how  frightful!  Surely  she  could  have 
been  helped  out  with  some  kind  of  wardrobe. 
Surely  you — "  I  looked  from  one  to  another 
of  them. 

"Oh,  she's  not  one  of  us,"  said  Judy  care- 
lessly. "She's  a  Fort  George  woman.  We 
could  n't  very  well  offer  to  do  anything.  Besides, 
they  say  she  is  quite  unapproachable.  I  believe 
the  women  here  were  ready  to  be  friendly,  but 
she  rebuffed  all  advances." 


76  The  Claw 

"She  has  other  troubles,  besides  lack  of  a  ward- 
robe," said  Miss  Cleeve  dryly. 

"No  one  has  ever  been  inside  her  house  even," 
said  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe.  "Very  silly  of 
her,  I  think.  In  my  opinion  it  always  does  one 
good  to  tell  one's  troubles  to  some  one  else." 

At  this  Mrs.  Valetta  gave  a  dry  laugh  that 
drew  my  attention  to  her,  but  she  still  had  her 
eyes  closed. 

"Ah,  Porkie, "  said  Miss  Cleeve,  "we  haven't 
all  your  simple,  confiding  nature. "  Porkie,  other- 
wise Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  threw  her  a  glance 
that  was  neither  simple  nor  confiding. 

"Dear  Anna,  thank  Heaven  I  am  exceptional 
in  having  nothing  to  confide,"  she  retorted  with 
a  sort  of  perky  significance. 

How  tired  I  felt  of  them  all,  and  how  disap- 
pointed! They  were  full  of  petty  malice  and 
empty  bitterness  and  were  making  me  just  the 
same.  I  already  felt  a  blight  on  the  joy  that 
Africa  had  waked  in  me.  As  day  by  day  I  had 
sped  across  the  wide,  rolling  plains  and  rivers,  in 
the  generous  sunshine,  I  had  seemed  to  feel  my 
soul  expand  and  be  set  free  from  the  littlenesses 
of  life.  Now  here,  right  up  in  the  heart  of  the 
wide  continent  where  I  had  dreamed  of  finding 
simple-hearted  people  living  happy,  sincere  lives — 
here  were  the  petty  things  of  life  once  more — 
empty  malice,  small  talk,  and  aching  hearts 
caused  by  a  lack  of  poudre  de  rizl  And  not  a 
sign  of  Lobengula  and  his  six  wives ! 


Cats'  Calls  77 

I  finished  my  tomato  sandwiches  and  sighed 
for  my  disillusionment.  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe 
spoke  me  kindly : 

"My  poor  child!  you  must  be  terribly  warm 
in  your  heavy  coat.  Why  don't  you  take  it 
off?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  really  must,"  I  said,  glad  of 
a  reason  to  rise  and  depart.  "I  am  so  very  tired, 
Judy.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  ask  to  go 
to  bed  at  once." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  said,  and  they  all  chorused 
"Of  course,"  and  began  to  put  on  their  wraps 
to  go.  "It  was  horrid  of  us  to  come  in  so  soon, " 
they  said,  "but  we  simply  had  to  welcome  you. 
It  is  sweet  having  some  one  new;  it  is  so  sinfully 
dull  up  here.  Of  course,  knowing  that  you  had 
arrived  so  recently  from  home,  we  could  n't  resist 
coming  straight  away.  Do  forgive  us.  Good- 
night. Do  rest.  You  look  positively  haggard 
with  fatigue." 

That  was  the  last  poisoned  arrow  they  flung 
at  me.  But  I  received  it  heroically,  for  I  ob- 
served that  Judy  and  Mrs.  Valetta,  who  still 
remained  seated,  had  discarded  their  languor 
and  weariness  for  a  moment  and  were  sharing 
a  malicious  smile.  I  should  have  liked  to  take 
down  one  of  the  assegais  from  the  wall  to  them, 
but  I  had  to  content  myself  with  saying  dryly : 

"It  is  really  too  charming  of  you  all  to  welcome 
me  so  warmly!" 

Mrs.  Valetta  continued  to  smile  in  her  sleep, 


78  The  Claw 

but  Judy  resumed  her  languor  like  a  wrap  as  the 
door  closed  on  the  others. 

"Ah!  we  all  live  in  each  others'  houses  up  here 
— and  know  each  others'  secrets.  You  will  get 
used  to  this  happy  state  of  things  if  you  mean 
to  stay  long,  Deirdre. " 

This  last  somewhat  enquiringly,  I  thought; 
but  I  had  no  intention  of  issuing  a  statement  at 
that  stage.  I  made  no  response,  only  nodded 
good-night  to  Mrs.  Valetta  and  followed  Judy 
to  my  room. 

While  she  was  lighting  candles  on  the  dressing- 
table  she  said: 

"Nina  Skeffington-Smythe  was  simply  dying 
for  you  to  take  off  your  coat,  so  that  she  might 
see  what  kind  of  figure  you  have,  and  was  dread- 
fully disappointed  when  you  did  n't  respond  to 
her  invitation." 

I  stared  at  my  sister-in-law  reflectively,  thinking 
how  she  had  changed,  and  what  bad  luck  it  was 
to  have  to  stay  here  amongst  all  these  unfriendly 
women  instead  of  being  able  to  go  right  into  the 
wild,  deep  heart  of  Africa.  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  regretted  not  being  a  man.  I  even 
regretted  my  lions  that  were  hyenas ! 

"Are  we  likely  to  be  here  long?"  I  asked 
abruptly. 

"Heaven  knows!  I  have  begged  Colonel  Blow, 
the  Magistrate,  to  let  you  and  me  go  on  to 
Salisbury  to-morrow  in  the  coach,  but  he  won't. 
He  says  that  now  we  are  here  we  must  stay 


Cats'  Calls  79 

until  the  trouble  with  Lobengula  is  all  over. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  they  are  sending  an 
expedition  against  him.  Two  columns  are  start- 
ing as  soon  as  they  have  all  the  horses  they  want, 
and  all  the  men  from  here  are  going  to  join  them. 
I  feel  sure  that  Dick  will  go  with  the  Salisbury 
Column  if  I  don't  get  back  in  time  to  stop  him. " 

"But  you  surely  won't  try  to  stop  him,  Judy? 
Poor  old  boy!  Fighting  is  his  profession,  after 
all,  and  how  he  will  love  to  get  back  to  it.  Just 
imagine  how  you  would  if  you  were  a  man. 
I  know  I  should." 

"That 's  all  very  well,  Deirdre,  but  Dick  might 
get  killed.  And  it 's  so  uncomfortable  here,  too, " 
she  continued.  "Mrs.  Valetta,  and  I,  and  now 
you,  all  stuffed  together  in  this  tiny  house  not 
big  enough  for  one."  Her  tone  was  frankly 
resentful. 

"I  'm  awfully  sorry,  Judy.  Of  course,  if  I 
had  known  how  uncomfortable  I  should  make  you 
I  would  not  have  come.  But  I  had  no  idea  until 
I  was  nearly  here  that  this  war  business  was  so 
far  advanced." 

"Oh,  they  have  been  making  preparations 
for  some  time,  but  very  quietly,  so  as  not  to  give 
the  Matabele  the  advantage  of  knowing  our 
plans.  But  the  time  is  close  at  hand  now.  Mr. 
Rhodes  is  up  in  Salisbury,  and  Dr.  Jim  is  back- 
wards and  forwards  all  the  time  between  here 
and  Victoria  and  Charter,  and  the  men  everywhere 
are  as  excited  as  they  can  be  over  the  chance 


8o  The  Claw 

of  war.  They  are  only  waiting  for  a  last  con- 
signment of  horses,  then  they  '11  go,  and  we 
wretched  women  will  be  left  behind  to  be  shut 
up  in  what  they  call  a  laager." 

"Even  that  might  be  interesting  if  there  were 
not  such  a  lot  of  cross,  catty  women  about," 
I  thought,  and  was  indiscreet  enough  to  say 
something  of  the  kind.  Judy  immediately  fell 
upon  me  with  a  dagger. 

"I  always  think  it  such  a  pity  when  girls  don't 
like  other  women,"  she  said,  in  a  stuffy  little 
voice.  "It  seems  to  me  there  is  something 
lacking  in  a  nature  like  that." 

"I  do  like  other  women,  Judy,  but  I  don't 
think  those  who  were  here  to-night  liked  me  much. 
They  made  me  feel  like  a  newly  arrived  favourite 
in  a  harem. " 

It  was  rather  a  rude  thing  to  say,  but  really 
they  had  been  very  annoying,  and  Judy  as  much 
as  any  of  them.  She  answered  me  in  an  extremely 
bored  voice. 

"You  must  n't  fall  into  the  mistake  that  women 
are  jealous  of  you  simply  because  they  take  an 
interest  in  your  appearance,  dear." 

"Oh,  I  don't,"  I  said  wearily.  "I  am  quite 
used  to  having  an  interest  taken  in  my  appear- 
ance. " 

This  annoyed  her  very  much,  so  she  pretended 
not  to  hear,  and  continued: 

"It  would  be  rather  absurd  if  you  did,  here,  for 
all  the  Salisbury  women  are  by  way  of  being 


Cats'  Calls  81 

good  looking,  and  really,  dear,  you  are  not 
looking  your  best.  Of  course,  I  know  you  must 
be  very  tired." 

Tired!  After  a  journey  of  fourteen  days  and 
nights  and  adventures  enough  to  turn  my  hair 
white!  After  being  nearly  drowned  in  rivers  and 
nearly  eaten  by  lions,  and  getting  blisters  on  my 
heels  and  mosquito  bites  on  my  hands,  and  grass- 
ticks  all  over  me,  and  being  left  alone  on  the 
veldt  all  night  with  tigers  and  hyenas!  Tired! 

I  thought  of  all  my  sufferings  and  my  weariness, 
my  ruined  complexion,  the  sunburn  on  my  nose 
and  the  blister  on  my  heel,  and  I  could  openly 
and  frankly  have  howled  aloud.  But  I  saw  that 
the  expression  on  Judy's  face  was  neither  of 
sympathy  nor  of  sorrow.  By  an  effort  I  con- 
trolled myself,  and  began  to  take  my  coat  and 
hat  and  veil  and  things  off.  As  I  could  see  no 
pegs  anywhere  I  hung  them  up  on  the  floor,  and 
as  calmly  as  possible  but  very  firmly  I  said: 

"Do,  please,  let  me  go  to  bed." 

"Certainly,  dear." 

How  I  wished  she  wouldn't  "dear"  me  in 
that  insincere  and  meaningless  way. 

6 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SUN  CALLS 

"  I  know  not  where  the  white  road  runs, 

Nor  what  the  blue  hills  are; 
But  a  man  can  have  the  Sun  for  his  friend, 
And  for  his  guide  a  Star. " 

I  AWOKE  to  the  far-off  chink  of  china,  a  babble 
of  native  voices  in  the  back  regions  of  the 
house,  and  a  glare  of  sunshine  bursting  through 
a  small  canvas  window. 

I  closed  my  eyes  again,  and  lay  for  a  long  time 
thinking  of  the  soft,  sweet-aired  September  morn- 
ings in  Ireland,  all  grey  and  misty — trying  to 
believe  I  was  back  there  in  my  chintz-curtained 
bed  in  my  chintz-covered  room  with  the  salt 
sting  of  the  Atlantic  coming  in  through  the  win- 
dows on  the  faint  peat-scented  breeze.  I  made 
myself  believe  that  the  chink  of  china  was  the 
chink  of  the  morning  tea-cup  on  Nora's  tray,  as 
she  came  in  with  my  letters  and  a  bunch  of 
violets  and  a  soft  bright: 

"Good-morning  to  you,  Miss  Deirdre!  I  hope 
it 's  not  waking  you  I  am. " 

82 


The  Sun  Calls  83 

At  last  I  opened  my  eyes  and  stared  about  me. 
Ah !  what  a  glare !  Alas !  how  far  off  was  Ireland, 
and  what  a  different  place  this  to  my  rose-chintz 
room!  But  what  did  that  matter  after  all?  I 
could  go  back  when  I  chose,  and  in  the  meantime 
this  was  a  new  and  strange  land,  with  fascinations 
of  its  own  that  could  not  be  disputed.  Sleep  had 
freed  my  heart  from  the  paltry  vexations  of  the 
night,  and  the  spirit  of  the  morning  pervaded 
me  once  more.  I  felt  nothing  but  glad  to  be 
alive  in  the  gay  and  buoyant  sunshine  of  which 
the  room  was  full.  It  flickered  on  the  bare  white 
walls,  and  danced  upon  the  pale  shining  mats  that 
covered  the  floor.  Afterwards  I  found  these  to 
be  native  mats  made  by  the  Mashonas.  Every 
one  uses  them  on  their  floors,  and  for  verandah 
blinds.  The  natives  bring  them  round  to  the 
door  and  one  buys  them  for  a  shilling  apiece. 
The  walls  of  the  room  were  bare  and  whitewashed, 
but  they  looked  soft  and  powdery,  and  perhaps 
that  was  why  there  was  nothing  on  them  any- 
where. The  dressing-table  was  a  draped  affair, 
without  legs,  and  so  was  the  wash-hand-stand. 
A  tall  strip  of  unframed  mirror  stood  on  the  former, 
leaning  against  the  wall;  on  the  top  left-hand 
side  it  had  a  broken  corner,  over  which  a  lace 
handkerchief  had  been  arranged.  At  the  foot 
of  the  mirror  were  some  silver  toilet  articles  and 
a  poudre  de  riz  box  with  a  faded  satin-pink  puff 
resting  on  it.  There  were  no  flowers,  no  pictures, 
no  photographs.  My  dressing-case  stood  open 


84  The  Claw 

on  a  chair,  as  I  had  left  it  the  night  before,  and 
my  clothes  were  still  hung  up  on  the  floor.  I 
sighed. 

The  little  sigh  I  gave  echoed  back  to  me  across 
the  room,  causing  me  to  turn  hastily  towards  a 
screen  which  was  placed  down  the  room,  dividing 
it.  It  was  a  dull  pink  screen  with  golden  storks 
meandering  across  it,  and  it  might  or  might  not 
have  come  from  Japan,  but  seemed  out  of  place 
in  Mashonaland.  It  did  not  quite  reach  from 
wall  to  wall,  and,  to  my  astonishment,  just  beyond 
the  top  of  it  I  could  see  Judy's  face  lying  on  a 
pillow.  I  had  fallen  asleep  so  swiftly  the  night 
before  that  I  did  not  even  know  I  was  sharing 
the  room  with  my  sister-in-law. 

She  was  in  bed  and  still  asleep.  Her  fair  hair 
lay  in  two  plaits  down  the  folded  sheet.  Her 
lips  were  pale  and  slightly  apart;  her  cheeks, 
faintly  tinted,  grew  rosier  towards  the  nostrils. 
She  was  still  pretty,  but  she  was  losing  her  com- 
plexion, and  the  peevish  lines  I  had  noticed  the 
night  before  showed  more  deeply  round  her  baby- 
ish mouth.  Her  hands,  resting  before  her  on 
the  quilt,  had  the  calm,  complacent  look  of  hands 
that  have  grasped  their  fate  and  have  got  it  safe. 
Her  fingers  were  badly  manicured,  but  her  broad, 
gold  wedding-ring  shone  with  an  assured,  defiant 
gleam. 

She  was  a  good  deal  changed  from  the  Judy 
who  had  been  the  prettiest,  daintiest  girl  in  Wilts 
five  or  six  years  before.  Dick's  heart  had  been 


The  Sun  Calls  85 

a  house  of  many  mansions  until  the  hunting 
morn  when  he  had  first  met  Judy  following  the 
Duke  of  Beaufort's  pack  and  had  gone  down  be- 
fore her  grey  eyes  and  pretty,  appealing  manners. 
Thereafter  no  more  mansions  in  his  heart,  but 
only  a  chapel  for  adoration  and  prostration. 
Everything  and  every  one  else  had  gone  by  the 
board.  I  have  seen  that  single-hearted  devotion 
in  husbands  before,  and  always  in  the  nicest  kind 
of  men;  but  I  have  noticed  that  it  does  not  in- 
variably make  the  marriage  a  wild  success.  The 
woman  usually  gets  spoilt  and  selfish,  and  begins 
to  think  she  is  far  too  good  for  her  husband.  It 
is  rather  a  sad  sight  then  to  see  a  fine  man  wasting 
his  heart  on  some  one  who  despises  him  for  doing 
it. 

For  a  year  or  two  after  their  marriage  it  had 
been  painful  to  those  who  loved  him  to  watch 
Dick  making  ducks  and  drakes  of  his  money 
and  chances  of  a  military  career  under  the  spell 
of  his  adoration  for  Judy.  For  her  sake  he  re- 
signed from  his  regiment  when  it  was  ordered 
abroad,  and  eventually  left  the  army  to  have 
more  time  to  be  with  her.  For  her  sake  he  took 
a  lovely  house  in  Mayfair  and  lived  with  brilliant 
extravagance,  throwing  the  dibs  to  the  four 
winds  as  Aunt  Betty  (who  has  a  respect  for  money) 
put  it,  until  even  his  large  income  began  to  give 
out.  But  Judy  (who,  as  the  daughter  of  a  poor 
baronet,  had  never  been  able  to  indulge  her  taste 
for  the  social  life  she  adored)  continued  on  her 


86  The  Claw 

merry,  expensive  way  until  things  got  actually 
desperate  with  them,  and  one  bright  morning  Dick 
was  obliged  to  announce  to  her  that  unless  he 
meant  to  live  on  his  mother  (which  he  did  n't) 
they  must  pull  stakes  for  some  quiet  little  place 
in  the  country,  where  inducements  to  spend  money 
would  not  be  so  pressing. 

Judy  was  broken-hearted  at  the  thought  of 
going  back  to  the  life  from  which  she  hoped  she 
had  escaped  for  ever,  but  she  consoled  herself 
by  choosing  Surrey  as  her  future  home.  In  fact, 
she  consoled  herself  so  well  that  in  a  few  months 
the  financial  position  was  worse  than  ever,  and 
it  really  came  at  last  to  a  question  of  Dick's  taking 
the  remains  of  his  fortune  to  try  for  a  fresh  throw 
of  the  dice  in  some  other  country.  Africa  was 
chosen  and  they  departed,  Judy  weeping  and 
reproaching  every  one  but  herself.  Dick  had 
bought  an  ostrich-farm  ready  stocked,  in  the 
Free  State,  and  for  a  time  all  went  well;  Judy 
said  she  adored  the  life  of  riding  and  driving  and 
they  made  many  friends  in  the  capital  which  was 
close  at  hand.  Then  suddenly  the  ostriches, 
afflicted  by  some  mysterious  malady,  began  to 
die  by  scores.  In  a  few  months  poor  Dick  was 
thousands  of  pounds  to  the  bad,  and  the  horizon 
scowled  once  more.  Judy  did  her  best  to  persuade 
him  to  let  mother  help  him  out  of  his  difficulties, 
a  course  he  had  hitherto  resisted  with  all  his  might, 
though  my  mother's  heart  and  purse  were  always 
open  to  him.  Judy  wrote  and  begged  me  to 


The  Sun  Calls  87 

use  my  influence  with  him,  and  I  did,  but  while 
things  were  still  unsettled  my  mother  died  sud- 
denly, and  almost  directly  afterwards  came  the 
American  Bank  crash,  reducing  us  all  to  com- 
parative poverty,  and  making  poor  Dick's  horizon 
darker  than  ever. 

But  there  was  not  much  American  respect  for 
money  in  Dick.  He  was  all  Saurin  and  happy- 
go-lucky  Celt,  and  I  believe  that  except  for  Judy's 
sake  he  did  not  in  the  least  mind  being  in  deep 
waters.  I  gathered,  too,  that  he  was  rather 
pleased  if  anything  to  break  away  from  ostrich 
farming,  which,  he  wrote  me  in  confidence,  was 
but  a  dull  dog's  life.  The  next  I  heard  was  that 
he  had  left  Judy  in  Cape  Town,  and  joined  the 
pioneers  who  were  to  open  up  Mr.  Rhodes's  new 
country  in  the  north.  Before  many  months 
Judy  had  joined  him;  and  in  love  with  the  country 
and  the  men  who  had  found  it,  he  ventured  the 
last  of  his  capital  in  land  near  Salisbury.  With 
the  intention  of  making  his  permanent  home  there, 
he  had  started  upon  what  promised  to  be  a 
prosperous  future  in  farming  and  horse-raising. 

They  had  one  little  son,  whom  they  had  left 
in  Durban,  and  who  was  to  be  brought  up  to 
them  as  soon  as  the  trouble  with  the  Matabele 
was  finally  adjusted. 

I  sighed  once  more  as  I  looked  at  my  own  slim 
fingers.  I  had  been  too  tired  to  take  off  my 
rings,  and  an  opal  and  a  diamond  or  two  winked 
wickedly  at  me.  I  wondered  if  my  hands  would 


88  The  Claw 

be  like  Judy's  some  day — calm  and  complacent 
and  badly  manicured!  Just  because  some  good 
man  would  come  along  and  admire  them  and 
kiss  them  and  think  them  the  most  beautiful 
hands  in  the  world,  and  thereafter  fold  them  in 
his  breast  while  he  himself  took  the  wheel  and 
did  all  the  guiding  through  stormy  seas,  and  all 
the  hard  work  on  land  of  fighting  and  gripping 
and  parrying  for  place  and  position  and  money! 
It  seemed  to  me  that  it  would  be  rather  hard  on 
the  good  man  if  one  did  n't  keep  the  hands  just 
as  fair  and  alive  and  beautiful  as  when  they  first 
attracted  him:  and  rather  mean  to  let  them  grow 
plump  and  complacent  and  gripless  and  neglected. 

Of  course,  Dick  was  my  brother,  my  wild, 
gay-hearted  brother,  and  the  handsomest  boy 
in  Ireland,  and  Judy  was  only  my  sister-in-law. 
And  of  course,  no  one  ever  thinks  their  sister-in- 
law  quite  nice  enough  for  their  brother.  I  wished 
to  be  quite  just.  Anyway,  early  morning  re- 
flections are  always  a  mistake,  so  I  gave  them  up. 

I  hopped  softly  out  of  bed,  tipped  up  the 
canvas  window,  and  peered  out  at  the  little 
township.  Wattle-and-daub  houses  everywhere, 
some  of  them  beehive  shape,  like  kaffir  huts,  some 
of  them  barn-shape  like  the  one  I  was  in:  but 
all  with  thatched  roofs  and  some  with  verandahs, 
stuck  here  and  there  with  apparent  aimlessness, 
but  not  without  a  certain  picturesque  effect. 
Streets  that  were  merely  wide  stretches  of  grass 
with  a  foot-path  in  the  middle  and  wheel-ruts 


The  Sun  Calls  89 

at  the  sides.  A  bush  or  a  wild  tree  growing 
casually  before  a  door.  A  porch  made  of  packing- 
cases  and  clambered  over  by  grenadilla,  or  a 
clematis- wreathed  verandah,  struck  an  individual 
note  here  and  there.  A  plant  with  an  enormous 
leaf  and  a  floppy,  sulphur-coloured  flower  seemed 
very  popular  and  prolific.  I  afterwards  dis- 
covered it  to  be  the  ubiquitous  pumpkin. 

There  were  many  waggons  about,  all  of  them 
piled  up  with  things,  as  though  ready  for  de- 
parture. 

I  rather  especially  noticed  a  square-built  hut, 
the  walls  of  which  rose  no  higher  than  about 
three  feet,  from  thence  were  open  to  the  high- 
pitched  thatched  roof,  except  for  native  mats  let 
down  here  and  there  in  narrow  rolls  like  blinds. 
It  was  rather  like  a  primitive  Japanese  tea-house, 
and  I  thought  how  lovely  it  must  be  to  sleep 
there  at  nights  with  all  the  mats  rolled  up  and 
the  stars  peeping  in.  Evidently  it  belonged 
to  a  man,  for  just  before  its  door  sat  a  ring  of 
black  boys  jabbering  and  cleaning  a  man's  boots 
and  a  man's  stirrups  and  other  articles  of  riding- 
kit,  and  a  boy  was  rubbing  down  a  jolly  chestnut 
mare  with  the  same  hissing  noise  grooms  make 
at  "home"  when  they  are  grooming.  At  a 
second  glance  I  recognised  the  handsome  head, 
the  long  graceful  flanks,  and  the  white  hoofs  of 
"Belle."  So  her  master  was  here,  and  lived 
in  this  glorified  tea-house! 

A  little  wave  of  gladness  trembled  through  me, 


go  The  Claw 

I  knew  not  why.  A  good  way  off  I  could  see 
the  glint  of  galvanised-iron  roofs — evidently  the 
shops ;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  township  was  a  big 
brisk  building  with  a  tall  conning-tower  rising 
from  it,  and  a  high-walled  yard  beyond.  I  recog- 
nised the  post-office  where  the  coach  had  drawn 
up  the  night  before. 

A  dear  little  ridiculous,  consequential  place,  I 
said  to  myself,  and  laughed  with  a  heart  as  light 
as  a  feather,  for  the  air  that  came  in  at  the  window 
was  like  champagne.  Nevertheless,  I  still  had 
post-cart  ache,  and  decided  that  a  day  in  bed 
would  be  the  only  real  cure  for  my  utter  bone 
weariness.  I  slipped  back  amongst  my  pillows. 

Judy  suddenly  woke  up,  yawned,  looked  at 
her  hands,  drew  one  of  them  up  to  carefully 
examine  a  spot  on  it,  then  let  her  eyes  travel 
round  the  room  until  in  the  course  of  time  they 
encountered  me.  Then  she  gave  a  great  start 
and  put  up  her  hands  to  her  hair. 

"Oh,  Deirdre,  how  you  startled  me!  I  had 
quite  forgotten  about  your  arriving." 

" Merci,  ma  cherie,"  I  laughed,  "but  I  hope  your 
cook  has  not.  One  thing  Africa  has  done  for 
me  is  to  provide  me  with  a  perpetual  appetite. 
I  don't  know  yet  whether  it  is  a  good  thing  or 
not." 

Having  hidden  her  hands  under  the  counter- 
pane my  sister-in-law  regained  her  complacency. 

"My  dear  child,  it  is  a  very  bad  thing;  it  is 
simply  mockery,  like  all  the  other  favours  Africa 


The  Sun  Calls  91 

bestows,  for  there  is  nothing  here  to  appease  your 
good  appetite.  I  hope  you  will  not  expect  buttered 
eggs  and  grilled  ham,  etc.,  or  you  will  be  terribly 
disappointed.  Reimptje  never  gives  us  anything 
but  mealie-meal  porridge,  and  eggs  boiled  as  hard 
as  stones." 

"I  met  those  luxuries  on  the  journey  up." 

"They  are  all  any  one  ever  has  for  breakfast 
in  Mashonaland. " 

"In  that  case  I  shall  go  to  sleep  again  for  a 
week,"  I  said,  and  turned  my  face  to  the  wall. 

"Oh!  how  unkind  of  you,  Deirdre,  when  I  am 
longing  to  hear  all  the  news  about  everybody. " 

So  we  gossiped  awhile,  and  I  told  her  all  the 
home  news,  and  she  explained  to  me  how  she  came 
to  be  in  Fort  George  and  away  from  Dick.  It 
appeared  that  a  slight  epidemic  of  typhoid  fever 
had  broken  out  in  Salisbury,  and  every  one  had 
become  very  much  alarmed,  as  its  origin  could 
not  be  discovered.  The  hospital  sisters  were 
coping  well  with  cases,  but  many  men  had  decided 
to  send  their  wives  away  for  a  while  until  the 
reason  of  the  outbreak  had  been  discovered.  As 
several  other  ladies  were  starting  for  Fort  George 
Dick  had  persuaded  Judy  that  it  might  be  a  good 
thing  for  her  also  to  get  a  little  change. 

"We  came  down  by  waggon  with  an  escort  of 
men,  and  it  was  awfully  jolly  and  amusing  at 
first,"  said  Judy.  "But  we  are  all  rather  sick 
of  it,  and  would  like  to  go  back.  At  least  I  would. 
I  don't  think  Mrs.  Valetta  cares  very  much,  for 


92  The  Claw 

she  has  an  awful  husband  and  is  delighted  to 
be  away  from  him.  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe, 
though  she  pretends  to  adore  her  wretched  little 
Monty,  is  not  at  all  in  a  hurry  to  go  back  to  him. 
She  and  Anna  Cleeve  are  living  in  a  tent  together 
and  affect  to  be  enormous  friends,  calling  each 
other  by  pet  names,  but  they  will  have  a  terrible 
quarrel  one  of  these  days.  Mrs.  Valetta  lives  in 
the  hut  next  door,  but  there  is  an  entrance  from 
it  into  this,  and  she  has  her  meals  with  me  and 
is  obliged  to  come  in  here  to  dress,  as  her  hut 
has  no  looking-glass.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  her 
coming.  Of  course  she  must  see  herself." 

I  did  not  recognise  any  such  necessity  on  the 
part  of  so  wicked-looking  a  face,  but  I  said 
nothing,  and  presently,  after  Judy  had  dressed 
and  gone  to  make  some  inquiries  on  the  subject 
of  breakfast,  Mrs.  Valetta,  swathed  in  an  ashen- 
blue  kimono  that  matched  her  eyes,  came  wearily 
in  and  stood  before  the  dressing-table.  She 
began  to  take  hold  of  some  curls  that  were  lying 
about  on  her  forehead  and  to  fluff  them  up  with 
a  hairpin.  In  the  meantime  she  looked  in  the 
mirror  at  me,  examining  me  carefully. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  get  up?"  she  asked. 
"Your  sister-in-law  promised  to  take  you  round 
to  the  tennis-court  this  afternoon.  Every  one 
is  very  anxious  to  see  you." 

"How  kind  of  them,"  I  said,  "but  I  really  am 
too  tired,  Mrs.  Valetta.  The  thought  of  tennis 
in  my  present  state  makes  my  spirit  faint." 


The  Sun  Calls  93 

She  considered  me  thoughtfully,  still  through 
the  mirror. 

"I  think  you  will  be  foolish  not  to  come.  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  will  tell  all  the  men  that 
it  is  because  you  are  so  burnt  and  blistered. 
They  will  get  quite  a  wrong  impression  of 
you." 

I  answered  cheerfully:  "They  will  get  a  fresh 
one  when  they  see  me.  But  do  their  impressions 
matter?" 

This,  for  no  earthly  reason,  annoyed  her.  She 
cast  me  a  look  of  mingled  irritation  and  curiosity 
which  I  received  calmly.  At  twenty-one  one 
can  bear  with  a  prepared  heart  the  piercing 
scrutiny  of  "something  over  thirty." 

"Oh,  yes:  you  will  find  that  they  matter.  One 
has  rather  a  bad  time  in  this  country  if  the  men 
don't  like  one." 

I  could  have  told  her  that  men  always  liked 
me,  but  it  seemed  brutal  to  inflict  unnecessary 
pain. 

"Really?" 

"For  one  thing  they  have  all  the  horses,  and 
there  is  very  little  to  do  if  one  does  n't  ride.  But, 
of  course,  that  won't  affect  you. " 

"Oh,  why?"  said  I,  opening  my  eyes  wide. 
"I  've  brought  a  habit  with  me  and  I  adore 
riding." 

I  thought  of  "Belle's"  white  feet  and  my  own 
tingled  to  be  in  the  stirrups. 

"  Ah !  but  your  vanity  will  take  you  much  further 


94  The  Claw 

than  any  Mashonaland  horse,"  said  she,  and 
loafed  wearily  from  the  room. 

Really,  that  was  trbs  drole!  I  could  n't  help 
laughing,  first  at  her  cross-patchiness  and  secondly 
at  the  idea  of  my  being  vain.  For,  of  course,  I 
am  not  vain  at  all,  only  these  antagonistic  women 
aroused  my  dormant  cat,  and  made  me  want  to 
say  arrogant  things.  I  felt  sure  that  if  I  did 
not  they  would  walk  all  over  me,  and  that  is  a 
thing  I  never  allow  any  one  to  do.  It  is  bad  for 
them. 

The  sense  of  disappointment  I  had  felt  the 
night  before  returned  to  me,  but  it  was  accom- 
panied by  the  spirit  of  fight.  If  these  women 
wanted  battle,  well  they  should  have  it,  and  I 
would  fight  them  with  their  own  weapons.  How- 
ever, it  behooved  me  first  to  put  mine  in  order. 
I  presently  arose  and  from  my  dressing-case 
secured  a  hand-glass  and  a  pot  of  common  or  gar- 
den hazeline,  which  I  had  found  to  prove  a  more 
useful  friend  in  time  of  need  than  all  the  Oriental 
creams  that  were  ever  buried  with  Persian 
princesses  and  rooted  out  again  by  the  owners  of 
beauty-parlours  in  Bond  Street  and  Fifth  Ave- 
nue. Having  retired  to  my  bed  once  more  I 
fell  to  studying  my  appearance  with  an  earnest- 
ness I  had  never  before  given  the  subject. 

The  old  tragic  look  was  peeping  out  of  my  gay 
face  as  usual.  I  jibed  at  it  as  always:  but  really 
I  believe  that  without  it  I  should  not  have  been 
so  charming  and  original  looking. 


The  Sun  Calls  95 

My  mother  could  never  watch  me  long  without 
tears  coming  into  her  eyes.  She  would  say: 

"Oh,  Deirdre,  what  puts  that  look  into  the 
back  of  your  eyes?" 

And  I  would  answer: 

"Darling,  what  look?  I  was  just  thinking 
of  a  book,  or  a  ride,  or  a  new  gown — nothing  sad 
at  all." 

" Well,  it  must  mean  something,  Deirdre!"  she 
would  declare.  "I  fear  for  you.  I  believe  you 
are  predestined  to  some  terrible  suffering  or 
sorrow,  and  your  soul  knows  about  it  and  is 
afraid." 

"Nonsense,  darling,"  I  always  told  her.  "I  '11 
never  let  anything  make  me  unhappy.  No  one 
shall  turn  me  into  a  tragedy.  I  know  too 
much  about  the  joy  of  living." 

"Oh,  Deirdre,  don't  talk  like  that.  It  sounds 
as  if  you  were  daring  Fate." 

So  I  was.  I  had  always  thought  of  Fate  as 
she  had  been  represented  to  me  in  a  queer  book 
of  fancies  and  fables  by  a  sardonic  old  French 
author. 

"Fate  is  an  old  hag  with  a  basket  full  of  painted 
apples.  She  hands  you  out  one,  and  you  are  so 
foolish  as  to  take  it,  and  when  you  bite  it  and 
find  it  rotten  she  smiles  grimly  and  says,  'I  told 
you  so'  (though  she  had  not).  And  when  you 
don't  like  the  taste  of  the  paint  she  says,  'But 
you  must  eat  it  to  the  core.  Perhaps  it  will 
taste  better  there.'  (But  it  does  not.)" 


96  The  Claw 

A  Fate  like  that  ought  to  be  defied,  and  I  felt 
sure  that  if  every  one  did  so  she  could  never  harm 
them.  Tragedy  is  in  us,  and  not  in  externals: 
Emerson  says  so.  I  refused  to  be  a  tragedy. 

I  laughed  at  Fate,  and  considered  my  complex- 
ion. Like  everything  about  me  it  was  unusual. 
It  had  a  rich  cream  tint  that  blended  per- 
fectly with  my  wallflower  eyes  and  hair.  My 
mother  arranged  my  colouring  for  me  before  I 
was  born.  She  had  a  passion  for  reds  and  browns 
and  ambers,  and  ardently  desired  to  have  a 
daughter  with  such  colouring,  so  for  all  the  months 
before  I  was  born  she  used  to  have  her  rooms 
heaped  with  marigolds  and  wallflowers  and  nas- 
turtiums and  sit  amongst  them.  People  said 
she  was  a  crazy  American  woman,  full  of  eccentric 
ideas  and  notions,  and  perhaps  she  was;  but  she 
got  what  she  wanted.  For  the  velvet  reds  and 
browns  and  ambers  of  those  simple  but  lovely 
flowers  did  reproduce  themselves  in  my  eyes  and 
hair — at  least  every  one  said  so — and  the  tint 
was  in  my  skin,  too,  in  an  indescribable  sort  of 
way,  and  the  effect  was  not  at  all  unbecoming 
to  my  small,  narrow,  and  extremely  retrousse  face. 
Did  I  ever  say  that  every  single  thing  about  me 
turns  upwards? — my  chin,  nose,  cheekbones,  lips 
— all  have  that  curly,  odd,  rather  fascinating 
upward  tilt,  and  every  single  hair  on  my  head 
turns  up  at  the  ends.  Yes,  I  am  very  re- 
trousse. Of  course,  I  don't  say  that  it  is  pretty 
but  it  is  rather  original  I  think. 


The  Sun  Calls  97 

After  all,  the  sun  had  not  done  my  skin  so  much 
harm  as  I  thought.  Indeed,  I  had  often  been 
in  worse  case  after  a  week  on  the  river,  or  a  day's 
hunting  in  hard  weather,  and  thought  nothing 
of  it.  As  for  my  eyes  and  hair,  "Time  with  her 
cold  wing"  might  some  day  wither  them,  but 
Africa  had  certainly  done  them  no  harm  so  far. 
However,  I  decided  to  anoint  myself  in  a  royal 
manner  with  cold  cream,  and  take  a  full  day's  rest. 
Incidentally,  I  unpacked  my  war-paint  and  plumes, 
and  shook  the  creases  from  my  coats  of  mail. 

7 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  HEART  CALLS 

"All  charming  people  are  spoiled.  It  is  the  secret  of  their 
attraction. " 

ON  the  second  day  after  my  arrival  I  descended 
upon  my  enemies  in  open  field,  or  rather 
on  open  court.  Judy,  having  reviewed  my  toi- 
lette before  starting,  was  suddenly  smitten  with 
a  violent  headache,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Valetta 
would  chaperon  me  to  tennis. 

In  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  have  felt 
distinctly  mean  about  appearing  amongst  people 
who  had  for  some  time  been  cut  off  from  shops 
and  civilisation  by  about  eight  thousand  miles 
of  rolling  land  and  sea,  in  a  pale  yellow  muslin 
gown  concerning  which  Lucile  considered  she  had 
received  special  inspiration  from  Heaven,  and 
a  black  chip  Lentheric  hat  which  no  woman  could 
look  upon  unmoved.  However,  I  was  not  at  that 
time  considering  the  feelings  of  other  women, 
but  the  ways  of  certain  members  of  the  family 
felis.  It  had  come  to  my  ears,  through  the  kindly 

98 


The  Heart  Calls  99 

offices  of  my  sister-in-law,  that  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe  had  informed  the  world  at  large  that 
I  was  suffering  from  a  boil  on  my  nose  and  fifty-six 
mosquito  bites  variously  distributed  over  the 
rest  of  my  features.  Miss  Cleeve  had  contented 
herself  with  saying  that  she  personally  did  not  care 
for  the  new  shade  in  hair — it  had  a  pink  tone  in  it 
that  was  bizarre.  What  Mrs.  Valetta  said  had 
not  yet  transpired,  but  looking  at  her  as  she 
slouched  beside  me  in  her  tired  coat  and  skirt,  I 
felt  sure  that  it  was  something  equally  malicious. 

We  arrived  at  the  court  in  an  hour  of  brazen 
heat.  Four  men  were  playing  a  sett,  and  several 
others  were  clustered  round  a  tea-basket  and 
Mrs.  Brand,  who  still  wore  her  habit.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  court  was  a  little  group  of  women 
sitting  in  canvas  chairs  with  white  umbrellas 
over  their  heads  and  needlework  in  their  hands. 
I  was  informed  that  these  were  the  Fort  George 
women — "frumps  and  dowds  of  the  most  hopeless 
order. "  However,  they  appeared  to  be  very  happy 
and  content  in  spite  of  this  utter  depravity  on  their 
part,  and  they  had  a  number  of  nice,  keen,  clean- 
looking  men  with  them.  These,  however,  did 
not  stay  for  any  time,  having  apparently  business 
of  their  own  to  attend  to. 

"Husbands!"  said  Mrs.  Valetta  scornfully, 
"and  mostly  shopkeepers  and  farmers  at  that." 

This  naturally  lessened  my  interest  in  them, 
for  I  did  not  suppose  I  should  meet  them  if  they 
belonged  to  the  tradespeople  class,  and,  in  fact, 


ioo  The  Claw 

I  rather  wondered  what  they  were  doing  there  at 
all.  I  had  not  at  that  time  learned  that  in  a  new 
country  like  Mashonaland  men  can,  and  do,  turn 
their  hands  to  any  trade  or  calling  that  is  clean, 
without  in  the  least  prejudicing  themselves  or 
their  future.  Most  of  those  nice,  keen-looking 
men  had  left  good  professional  livings  to  come 
adventuring  to  a  new,  sweet  land  full  of  radiant 
possibilities,  but  until  some  of  the  possibilities 
materialised  the  main  thing  was  to  get  a  living 
in  the  best  way  that  offered.  But  as  I  say,  I  did 
not  at  the  time  realise  these  things. 

Mrs.  Valetta  in  her  rdle  of  chaperon  languor- 
ously introduced  the  Salisburian  side  of  the  court 
to  me.  Between  that  and  the  Fort  George  side 
was  evidently  a  great  gulf  fixed.  I  did  not,  how- 
ever, think  any  of  the  men  on  the  chic  side  des- 
perately engaging.  There  was  an  ancient  doctor 
with  baggy  cheeks  and  the  leer  of  a  malicious 
wild  goat  in  his  left  eye;  a  sepulchral- looking 
parson;  a  man  with  a  beard,  whose  first  cousin 
was  a  duke,  but  who  wore  dirty  hands  and  an 
unspeakable  shirt  without  a  coat,  and  several 
boys  of  sorts  (all  scions,  it  transpired,  of  noble 
houses).  But  I  never  take  the  slightest  notice 
of  boys  or  beards. 

The  men  on  the  court  were  better;  a  big,  grave 
man  with  a  frolicking  laugh — Colonel  Blow,  the 
Magistrate;  the  Mining  Commissioner,  a  sleek, 
fair  man;  a  rather  handsome,  chivalrous-looking 
young  fellow  called  Maurice  Stair;  and  a  man  with 


The  Heart  Calls  101 

turquoises  set  in  his  ears,  and  blue  eyes  that  com- 
pelled me  to  look  his  way  the  moment  I  reached 
the  court,  and  then  to  drop  my  lids  with  the  old, 
strange  weighted  sensation  on  them.  I  did  not 
look  his  way  again  until,  all  introductions  over 
I  was  seated,  when  I  put  on  my  most  cynical 
expression  and  let  him  see  that  I  was  not  observing 
him,  but  the  game. 

He  was  not  as  tall  as  any  of  the  others  if  you 
came  to  measure  by  inches,  but  his  figure  had  a 
strong,  careless  air,  and  the  distinction  of  his  head 
appeared  to  give  him  an  advantage  of  about 
thirty  inches  over  every  other  man  in  sight. 
His  hair  was  certainly  getting  thin,  and  I  was 
delighted  to  observe  it.  It  was  really  impossible 
to  bother  for  a  moment  about  a  man  who  had 
such  hair.  The  black  hank  of  it  hanging  down 
was  not  beautiful.  He  looked  about  forty,  too. 
Still,  he  could  n't  have  been  that :  no  man  who 
was  old  could  have  gone  after  the  balls  as  he  did. 
When  I  watched  him  I  remembered  the  Bible 
words,  "Like  a  swift  ship  upon  the  waters."  Of 
course,  I  knew  all  about  sculpture,  having  lived 
with  it  and  been  brought  up  to  it,  so  to  speak, 
and  I  could  not  help  knowing  that  only  a  beauti- 
fully built  man  could  move  like  that.  I  could 
not  help  knowing  it,  but  it  did  not  interest  me;  in 
fact,  it  bored  me,  and  I  looked  away  from  his 
careless  glance  when  it  came  my  way  as  carelessly 
as  ever  he  looked  in  his  life. 

Presently   the   sett   finished   and   the    players 


iO2  The  Claw 

came  briskly  towards  the  Salisburian  side.  But 
they  were  skilfully  intercepted  by  Miss  Cleeve 
and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  who  chose  this 
moment  to  arrive  most  gloriously  arrayed. 

"Yes,  but  why  have  you  got  on  your  best  stars 
and  stripes  this  afternoon?"  the  baggy  doctor 
loudly  demanded  of  them.  He  was  evidently 
a  person  who  said  what  he  liked  to  every  one. 
They  turned  away  from  him,  disdaining  to  answer; 
but  /  knew  why  they  were  so  glorious. 

Miss  Cleeve  made  haste  to  walk  off  with  Colonel 
Blow  to  the  end  of  the  court,  where  there  was  a 
rustic  seat  evidently  belonging  to  John  Dewar 
and  his  sons,  for  their  names  were  printed  every- 
where in  black  letters  over  the  packing-case  wood 
of  which  it  was  composed. 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  who  had  halted  the 
blue-eyed  man  was  reproaching  him  plaintively 
because  he  had  not  been  to  call  on  her  since  his 
return. 

"But  I  haven't  had  a  minute  since  I  got 
back,"  he  protested. 

"You've  had  time  to  call  on  Mrs.  Valetta. 
Why  could  n't  you  have  found  a  moment  to 
come  and  see  Anna  and  me?" 

Mrs.  Valetta  turned  and  bit  at  her: 

"Kim  and  I  have  known  each  other  for  many 
years, — 

"Old  friends  are  best — 
Old  loves,  old  books,  old  songs." 


The  Heart  Calls  103 

She  broke  off  the  quotation  at  that,  smiling 
a  little  acrid  smile.  These  things  did  not  interest 
me  in  the  least.  I  merely  felt  that  I  detested 
Mrs.  Valetta  and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  and 
most  of  all  the  detestable  man  they  were  squab- 
bling so  crudely  about.  Mrs.  Valetta  had  re- 
turned to  her  business  of  introducing  to  me 
a  large  queue  of  freshly  arrived  men.  She 
presented  each  with  a  brief  biographical  note, 
regardless  of  the  protests  of  the  victim. 

"This  is  our  disreputable  postmaster,  Mr. 
Mark  Bleksley.  Plays  the  banjo  divinely,  but 
steals  our  letters." 

"Oh!  I  say " 

•"Mr.  Maurice  Stair — quite  eligible — five  hund- 
red a  year — Assistant  Native  Commissioner,  and 
not  bad-looking. " 

"Handsome,  Mrs.  Valetta— 

"These  are  Hunloke  and  Dennison.  They  keep 
a  shop  and  rob  us  shamefully.  Mr.  Hunloke  is  an 
American  lawyer  by  profession,  but  he  finds  that 
overcharging  us  for  bully  beef  pays  better  than 
law,  and  gives  him  more  time  for  picnics." 

"I  could  take  action  on  those  statements. 
They  are  scandalous  and  libellous." 

"As  for  Tommy  Dennison 

"Please  don't  rob  me  of  my  good  name,  Mrs. 
Valetta.  It 's  all  I  have  left.  I  'm  as  eligible 
as  Stair,  anyway." 

"No,  Tommy.  You  are  a  younger  son — and 
you  have  a  past.  Every  one  says  you  have. " 


104  The  Claw 

"Yes,  but  it's  past." 

"This  is  our  only  real  Earl — Lord  Gerald 
Deshon — Irish,  penniless,  and  raving  mad.  You 
are  a  great  friend  of  Miss  Saurin's  brother, 
aren't  you,  Gerry?" 

"Yes,  but  I  object  to  that  biography.  If  you 
will  listen  to  me,  Miss  Saurin — 

I  did  listen,  but  they  all  talked  together, 
surrounding  me  and  making  a  great  deal  of  noise 
and  saying  the  silliest,  wildest  things  about  them- 
selves and  each  other;  and  a  few  yards  away  was 
that  hateful  voice,  low  and  level,  with  the  dis- 
turbing crake  in  it  that  suggested  power  and  the 
habit  of  issuing  orders.  Whatsoever  his  orders 
were  to  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  she  was  evi- 
dently disinclined  to  carry  them  out. 

"Nonsense!"  she  was  protesting.  "Let  us 
go  and  talk  to  Anna.  Don't  you  think  it  is  time 
you  made  up  your  quarrel  with  her?  What  did 
you  fall  out  about,  by  the  way?" 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  'm  sure  Miss  Cleeve 
has  no  quarrel  with  me." 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  laughed  gaily. 

"You  're  a  fraud,  Kim.  Every  woman  has  a 
quarrel  with  you." 

I  had  n't  the  faintest  desire  to  hear  these 
enigmatical  sayings,  but  they  all  talked  at  the 
top  of  their  voices,  brandishing  each  others' 
affairs.  It  appeared  to  be  true  that  no  one's 
secrets  were  their  own  in  this  hateful  country. 

Mrs.  Valetta  had  broken  up  the  crowd  round 


The  Heart  Calls  105 

me,  ordering  them  to  go  and  pick  up  sticks  to 
boil  the  kettle  for  tea.  They  straggled  away, 
complaining  and  abusing  each  other,  to  a  patch 
of  bush  about  five  hundred  yards  from  the  court. 
The  Earl  was  sent  to  Mrs.  Brand's  hut  to  fetch 
the  milk  which  had  been  forgotten.  I  now  saw 
myself  menaced  by  the  approach  of  the  beard, 
and  the  thought  of  flight  occurred  to  me,  but  at 
that  moment  the  argument  between  the  man 
and  Mrs.  Skefrmgton-Smythe  ceased. 

"Oh,  very  well,  since  you  are  so  very  insistent," 
she  said  crossly,  and  turning  to  me  added  sweetly, 
"Dear  Miss  Saurin,  how  is  your  poor  nose?  This 
is  Major  Kinsella.  He  is  dying  to  inquire  after  it. " 

If  this  was  meant  to  cover  us  both  with  con- 
fusion it  did  not  have  the  desired  effect.  At 
her  words  the  smile  suddenly  left  his  face,  and 
he  bowed  courteously;  the  steel-blue  eyes  looked 
into  mine  with  a  grave  serenity.  I  could  not 
but  know  that  he  was  incapable  of  such  gratuitous 
rudeness.  Wherefore,  instead  of  snubbing  him, 
as  I  had  intended  to  do,  I  bowed  back  to  him  and 
bestowed  upon  him  the  bright,  cold  smile  of  a 
frosty  morning:  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  he  recognised  the  quality  of  it,  if  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  did  not.  She  changed  her 
tactics. 

"Major  Kinsella,  if  you  do  not  find  me  a  seat 
I  shall  faint,  I  am  so  hot  and  tired.  Do  let  us 
go  over  and  sit  in  the  shade  with  Annabel. 
It  is  much  cooler  there." 


io6  The  Claw 

Major  Kinsella  was  something  of  a  tactician 
himself  it  appeared. 

"I  hope  you  can  have  Miss  Saurin's  seat  in 
a  moment.  I  am  just  going  to  ask  her  to  play 
with  me  against  Blow  and  Miss  Cleeve. " 

"I  play  terribly,"  I  said  coldly.  But  he 
blithely  announced  that  they  all  did,  and  no  one 
cared  a  button ;  the  main  thing  was  to  annoy  your 
opponents  as  much  as  possible.  As  that  rather 
appealed  to  my  frame  of  mind  at  the  moment, 
I  eventually  allowed  myself  to  be  beguiled  to 
the  court,  where  another  sett  had  just  broken 
up,  Major  Kinsella  shouting  unceremoniously  to 
the  others  as  we  walked: 

"Blow,  come  on.  You  and  Miss  Cleeve 
against  Miss  Saurin  and  me." 

The  game  was  not  uninteresting.  My  partner, 
whom  Colonel  Blow  addressed  as  Tony,  did  all 
the  work  and  only  left  me  the  slow  balls,  which 
I  gracefully  missed.  The  rest  of  the  time  we 
talked:  at  least  he  did.  Secretly  I  preserved  a 
bleak  manner.  He  could  not  fail  to  plainly 
understand.  But  as  I  did  not  wish  the  whole 
world  to  know  that  I  even  cared  to  be  cold  to  him, 
I  filled  in  any  prominent  gaps  in  the  conversation 
with  a  soft  little  laugh  that  he  knew  perfectly 
well  was  not  meant  for  him,  but  that  seemed  to 
vex  Miss  Cleeve  very  much.  For  some  reason 
not  very  apparent  she  lost  her  temper  early  in 
the  sett,  and  said  quite  crossly  that  if  we  did  not 
pay  more  attention  to  the  game  it  was  not  worth 


The  Heart  Calls  107 

while  going  on.  That  was  tr£s  drole,  considering 
that  we  were  winning  all  the  time !  I  thought  so, 
and  Major  Kinsella  said  it,  laughing  gaily.  Her 
only  answer  was  to  slam  the  balls  into  me  as  hard 
as  she  could,  and  as  I  was  out  of  practice  and  she  a 
remarkably  good  player  we  should  have  come 
off  badly  in  the  end  if  it  had  not  been  for  my 
partner's  speed  and  skill.  I  did  not  like  him 
in  the  least,  but  I  had  to  admit  he  could  play 
tennis  like  a  fiend. 

Later,  we  approached  the  tea-table,  which  was 
a  large  packing-case  presided  over  by  Mrs.  Brand, 
and  covered  with  a  beautifully  embroidered  tea- 
cloth  belonging  to  the  postmaster,  who  kept  brag- 
ging about  it,  and  saying  that  it  was  the  nicest  cloth 
in  South  Africa,  and  how  he  had  haggled  for  it 
at  Madeira  until  the  coolie  was  black  in  the  face, 
and  got  it  for  half  price. 

Several  of  the  men  who  had  returned  from 
the  wood  hunt  with  a  few  sticks  in  each  hand 
lay  upon  the  ground  in  an  exhausted  condition. 
The  rest  of  us  sat  in  a  wide  circle  round  the 
packing-case,  and  the  men  who  had  no  seats  took 
up  a  Yogi  attitude  upon  the  ground.  The  tea 
had  a  smoky  flavour,  but  somehow  it  was  the 
nicest  tea  I  had  ever  tasted,  and  the  smell  of 
the  dying  fire  of  wood  branches  was  fragrant  in 
the  air,  seeming  to  remind  me  of  some  old  sweet 
dream,  until,  glancing  up,  I  saw  Major  Kinsella 
breathing  it  in  too,  like  some  lovely  perfume, 
while  he  looked  at  me  with  a  curious  smile  in 


io8  The  Claw 

his  eyes.  I  knew  then  that  we  were  both  re- 
.membering  the  same  thing;  not  a  dream  at  all, 
but  a  real  memory  strangely  poignant. 

The  sun  had  fallen  to  the  horizon  line  and  lay 
there  like  a  great  golden  ball,  sending  long  rays 
of  fire  into  our  very  faces. 

In  those  last  searching  beams,  playing  upon  us 
so  mercilessly  it  was  revealed  to  me  for  the  first 
time  that  though  all  were  cheerful  and  merry 
every  face  about  me  wore  some  trace  of  stress 
or  storm.  For  the  first  time  I  observed  that 
men  whose  laughter  was  blithe  enough  had  hag- 
gard eyes;  that  jests  came  gaily  from  lips  that 
fell  into  desperate  lines  a  moment  later.  On 
faces  that  were  like  tanned  masks  there  were 
marks  that  dissipation  might  have  made,  or 
careless  sins,  or  I  know  not  what  mischance  of 
Fate.  The  women  under  their  heavy  veils  and 
pretty  hats  had,  to  my  suddenly  sharpened  vision, 
a  pathetic  disillusioned  look,  and  some  were 
careworn,  and  in  the  eyes  of  some  there  was  the 
fateful  expression  of  the  losing  gambler.  Anthony 
Kinsella's  dark  countenance,  too,  was  scored  with 
deep  lines  between  the  eyes  and  about  the 
mouth — hieroglyphics  I  had  no  gift  to  read, 
and  his  eyes  were  as  inscrutable  as  the  points 
of  blue  in  his  ears. 

For  the  first  time  I  forgot  all  the  things  that 
annoyed  me  in  these  people,  and  began  to  like 
them  with  pity  in  my  heart. 

Were   these   the   claw-marks   that   the   witch 


The  Heart  Calls  109 

Africa  put  upon  those  who  dwelt  in  her  bosom? 
Were  these  the  scars  of  her  fierce  embrace  ?  Surely 
not.  Surely  a  witch's  cypher  would  be  finer,  more 
subtle,  something  secret  yet  plain  as  the  sunlight 
to  those  who  could  read.  What  was  it?  Where 
was  it?  I  sought  it  in  the  faces  round  me,  and 
after  a  time  I  believed  I  found  it,  in  the  nil 
desperandum  air  that  each  flaunted  like  a  flag. 
It  was  Hope.  God  knows  what  they  hoped  for — 
each  for  something  different  perhaps — but  that  was 
what  woke  the  jest  upon  their  haggard  lips  and 
brightened  their  disillusioned  eyes ;  that  was  the  se- 
cret gift  the  witch  put  into  their  hearts,  the  masonic 
sign  she  wrote  across  their  brows.  Hope ! 

"Hope — the  heroic  form  of  despair!" 

My  heart  strangely  thrilled  with  the  thought 
that  if  I  had  read  aright  the  witch's  symbol  then 
I,  too,  was  of  the  initiated.  I  was  one  of  them— 
if  only  for  a  time! 

While  I  thought  and  felt  these  things,  I  was 
vaguely  aware  that  they  watched  me  in  a  curious, 
searching  way,  as  if  I  had  for  each  of  them  some 
hidden  message  I  had  not  yet  delivered.  Perhaps 
it  was  that  coming  from  "home"  and  being  quite 
new  to  the  country  I  had  a  different  look  to  the 
rest  of  them,  I  cannot  tell;  but  there  it  was — 
they  jested  and  laughed  and  gossiped  with  each 
other,  but  always  their  eyes  came  back  to  me 
with  that  wistful,  searching  glance.  And  my 
clothes  seemed  to  have  an  extraordinary  charm 


i  io  The  Claw 

for  them.  One  would  have  supposed  I  had  dropped 
from  some  wonderful  land  from  which  they  were 
life  exiles,  and  that  the  glamour  of  that  fair,  lost 
country  hung  about  me  still.  I  saw  men's  eyes 
examining  my  shoes  and  the  tucks  in  my  gown; 
even  the  one  great  La  France  rose  in  my  hat  had 
some  magic;  and  the  women  looked  so  wistful 
that  I  felt  tears  rising,  and  was  miserably  ashamed 
of  myself  for  having  put  on  my  prettiest  gown  to 
annoy  them.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  even  if 
they  had  been  cats,  I  had  been  the  worst  cat  of  all. 
Lord  Gerald  Deshon  said  to  me  boyishly: 

"May  I  sit  next  to  you,  Miss  Saurin?  you  smell 
so  nice."  And  when  the  old  doctor  picked  up 
my  glove  which  had  fallen,  he  gave  it  a  little 
stroke  with  his  hand  before  handing  it  back,  as 
though  it  were  something  alive. 

The  sun  sank  out  of  sight  at  last,  disappearing 
in  a  billowy  sea  of  wild-rose  clouds.  Golden  day 
departed,  and  silver  eventide  was  born. 

Gold  for  silver!  I  cannot  tell  why  those  three 
little  words  stole  through  my  mind  and  settled  in 
my  heart,  as  we  walked  home  under  a  great  canopy 
of  purple  haze  full  of  coolness  and  the  scent  of 
evening  fires:  but  it  seemed  to  me  suddenly  that 
they  were  the  most  beautiful  words  ever  written 
and  the  meaning  of  them  more  beautiful  still. 

The  entire  party  conducted  Mrs.  Valetta  and 
me  to  our  doors.  The  women  seemed  loth  to 
lose  sight  of  us,  and  the  men  talked  feverishly 
of  commandeering  all  the  horses  in  the  town  for 


The  Heart  Calls  in 

a  moonlight  picnic.  Unexpectedly  to  me,  some- 
how, Major  Kinsella  killed  this  delightful  plan 
by  saying  quietly : 

"No,  the  horses  are  not  available." 

The  crake  in  his  voice  had  become  suddenly 
most  pronounced;  perhaps  that  was  why  the 
men,  who  had  been  so  keen  for  the  picnic,  accepted 
this  dictum  without  a  word,  but  I  thought  the 
fact  rather  curious.  Mrs.  Brand  and  -Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  were  the  only  people  who  did 
not  abandon  the  idea  immediately. 

The  latter  petulantly  demanded  reasons  and 
told  him  that  he  did  not  own  all  the  horses  in 
the  town,  any  more  than  he  owned  all  the  hearts. 
Mrs.  Brand  said  sturdily: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  up  to,  my  dear 
Kim,  but  don't  you  lay  your  hands  on  either  of 
my  horses. " 

He  smiled  but  made  no  promises,  and  in- 
stead of  giving'  reasons  to  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe  began  to  discuss  the  possession  of  hearts 
with  her.  I  said  good-bye  hastily  and  went 
indoors. 


Judy  rid  of  her  headache  had  cheered  up  and 
put  on  a  pretty  gown,  but  her  hair  was  done 
anyhow  and  her  manner  unchangingly  languid. 

After  dinner  we  spent  the  evening  playing 
cards  at  Mrs.  Brand's.  She  had  a  really  com- 
fortable two-roomed  brick  house  lent  her  by 


ii2  The  Claw 

the  postmaster,  on  the  condition  that  he  could 
drop  in  whenever  he  liked.  However,  some  gay 
spirits  had  rigged  up  in  the  hall  a  toy  Maxim 
belonging  to  a  mining  engineer,  and  this  was 
trained  on  to  the  front  door  and  loaded  with 
"mealies"  for  the  benefit  of  the  postmaster,  in 
case  he  should  "drop  in"  at  the  wrong  time. 
Really  these  were  the  silliest  people! 

Somehow  the  evening  did  not  prove  so  inter- 
esting as  the  afternoon.  Almost  all  the  same 
people  were  there  but  to  me  there  seemed  a 
lack  of  fire  about  the  proceedings,  even  when 
Mrs.  Brand  had  a  supper  of  curried  eggs  sent 
in  from  Swears's  to  rouse  us,  and  a  delightful 
dessert  consisting  of  the  contents  of  grenadillas 
mixed  with  port  wine,  was  served  in  champagne 
glasses. 

The  man  called  Stair  attached  himself  to  me 
in  a  quiet,  unassuming  way  that  I  could  not 
object  to.  He  talked  little  but  seemed  to  be 
content  to  sit  near  me  and  look  at  me  with  his 
rather  romantic  dark  eyes.  Neither  Major  Kin- 
sella  nor  Colonel  Blow  appeared. 

Incidentally,  and  without  asking  questions,  I 
learned  a  great  many  things  about  the  former. 
Off  and  on,  he  was  the  main  topic  of  conversa- 
tion during  the  evening.  His  name  cropped  up 
faithfully  every  five  minutes.  When  Lord  Gerry 
said  that  he  had  certain  information  that  "Kim" 
was  going  to  be  in  command  of  the  Mounted 
Police  that  would  be  formed  as  soon  as  the  trouble 


The  Heart  Calls  113 

with  Lobengula  was  over,  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe  said  acidly : 

"He  behaves  as  if  he  were  in  command  of  the 
country  now. " 

"It  wouldn't  be  such  a  dusty  thing  for  the 
country  if  he  were,"  a  boy  cockily  announced; 
but  this  was  rank  treason  to  the  gods  in  charge, 
and  he  was  hooted  down  and  told  to  go  to  bed. 

"I  wish  I  had  his  future,"  said  some  one  else. 

"Even  if  you  had  to  take  his  past  with  it?"  a 
woman  asked  (Mrs.  Valetta). 

"Certainly:  that  wouldn't  hurt  me." 

"It  might  hurt  a  few  women  though,"  sneered 
Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe. 

"How  unfair  women  are!"  said  Lord  Gerry. 
"If  a  man  said  a  thing  like  that  he  would  have 
to  back  it  up  or  take  the  consequences. " 

"Oh!  I  am  quite  ready  to  do  both,"  she  ans- 
wered perkily,  and  glanced  at  her  great  friend 
Miss  Cleeve,  who  merely  stared  at  her  cards. 

"You  can't  blame  a  man  because  women  are 
fools,"  said  the  Mining  Commissioner,  a  slight 
man  full  of  heavy  philosophy.  Judy,  with  a 
prim  air,  abruptly  changed  the  subject,  but  in 
five  minutes  they  were  back  to  it  again,  like 
cats  to  cream. 

It  transpired  that  "Kim"  was  short  for  Kim- 
berley,  where  he  had  dealt  with  diamond  mines, 
and  made  and  lost  a  fortune. 

"But  wasn't  that  a  very  long  time  ago?"  I 
was  surprised  into  asking.  For  I  had  passed 


ii4  The  Claw 

through  Kimberley  and  found  that  its  day  of 
glory  had  departed. 

"Long?  why,  yes,  it  certainly  wa-s, "  drawled 
Mr.  Hunloke,  the  lawyer,  wagging  his  head. 
"But  Kim  is  no  newly-hatched  birdling. " 

"Haven't  you  observed  that  there  's  no  wool 
on  his  head  where  the  wool  ought  to  grow?"  said 
one  of  the  cheeky  boys  of  whom  I  thought  there 
were  far  too  many  about. 

"No,  I  have  not,"  I  answered  disdainfully. 

"Well,  it 's  getting  mighty  sparse,"  he  pro- 
claimed, with  increased  cheekiness. 

"Oh!  that 's  holy  living,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
leered  his  goat-like  leer. 

I  thought  what  horrid  people  they  all  were. 
It  appeared  that  Anthony  Kinsella  was  not  an 
army  man  as  English  people  understand  the 
term.  His  rank  had  been  gained  in  various 
bodies  of  African  Mounted  Police  which  he  had 
belonged  to  in  the  intervals  of  making  and 
losing  money  in  the  gold  and  diamond  capitals. 
He  had  a  great  head  for  finance  they  said,  but  in 
the  midst  of  successful  undertakings  and  deals  he 
would  break  away  and  disappear,  and  the  next 
heard  of  him  would  be  that  he  was  living  with 
his  boys  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  veldt,  or  had 
rejoined  for  a  time  some  old  corps  of  his.  He 
had  come  adventuring  to  South  Africa  when  he 
was  quite  a  boy,  knew  every  inch  of  the  country, 
and  was  looked  upon  as  almost  a  colonial. 

"Almost,  but  not  quite,"  said  Gerald  Deshon, 


The  Heart  Calls  115 

"he  is  one  of  us.  Also,  he  is  a  born  leader, 
and  no  colonial  was  ever  that,  though  I  daresay 
some  will  come  along  by-and-bye  as  the  years 
roll  by." 

"But  why  does  he  wear  turquoise  ear-rings?" 
I  asked  involuntarily,  thinking  no  one  but  Lord 
Gerry  was  listening. 

I  was  mistaken. 

"Some  woman  stuck  them  in  his  ears,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Mrs.  Valetta  fiercely;  and  she  and 
Miss  Cleeve  glared  at  me  across  their  cards. 
I  stared  at  them  in  surprise  for  a  moment,  then 
laughed,  though  I  was  not  greatly  amused. 

"I  never  thought  of  that. " 

"You  would  have  if  you  had  known  Kim  long, " 
said  Mrs.  Brand  dryly. 

"I  've  heard  that  there  have  been  more  men 
hurt  than  you  can  count  on  your  fingers  and  toes 
through  a  too  pressing  curiosity  about  those 
ear-rings,"  some  one  remarked. 

"Yes,  a  fellow  on  the  Rand  once  nearly  died  of 
that  complaint, "  added  Tommy  Dennison.  "It  is 
a  subject  that  Kim  will  stand  no  ragging  about." 

"She  must  have  been  a  very  pretty  woman," 
grinned  the  doctor. 

I  suddenly  felt  very  tired  and  low-spirited 
and  longed  to  go  away  from  them.  I  was  sick 
of  their  wretched  card-party.  I  wondered  what 
all  the  "frumps  and  dowds"  were  doing  and  their 
nice  business-like  men,  and  was  inspired  to  make 
a  remark. 


ii6  The  Claw 

"Do  the  Fort  George  men  spend  their  evenings 
talking  scandal  also?" 

There  was  absolute  silence  and  then  all  the 
men  began  to  grin. 

"You  can  search  me!"  averred  Mr.  Hunloke, 
but  his  partner  answered  blithely: 

"Oh!  they  're  getting  ready  to  tackle  Loben. " 

"There  's  a  lot  of  dirty  work  attached  to  an 
expedition  and  some  one  's  got  to  do  it, "  Gerry 
Deshon  said.  "Blow  and  Kinsella  are  up  to 
their  eyes,  and  a  lot  of  the  other  fellows  here  are 
experienced  men  in  wars  with  niggers.  None 
of  us  would  be  of  much  use  at  present." 

"It  takes  all  sorts  of  men  to  make  a  war. 
Perhaps  if  we  are  no  good  now  we  may  be  when 
the  fighting  comes  along." 

I  was  rather  attracted  by  this  quiet,  modest 
little  statement  made  by  Maurice  Stair. 

Every  one  walked  home  with  every  one  else 
as  usual,  and  discussed  what  they  should  do  the 
next  day  to  kill  time.  In  the  absence  of  any 
authority  some  bold  spirits  reverted  to  the 
moonlight-picnic  plan  for  the  next  evening,  but 
a  man  said  decidedly: 

"No  good!  Kim  has  got  down  some  inside 
information  from  headquarters,  and  won't  let 
the  horses  a  mile  away  from  the  town." 

An  important  resolution  that  we  should  all  meet 
at  the  tennis-court  the  following  afternoon  was 
passed,  and  my  sister-in-law  was  invited  to  invite 
every  one  to  supper  and  cards  in  the  evening. 


The  Heart  Calls  117 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  she,  swathed  in  languor 
as  usual.  "But  I  Ve  no  genius  for  entertain- 
ment. You  '11  have  to  fish  for  your  supper. " 

"All  right,  we  will,"  they  blithely  cried,  and 
announced  to  me,  "You  can  bank  on  us,  Miss 
Saurin.  We '11  be  there. " 

I  did  not  doubt  the  fact,  but  it  failed  to  interest 
me.  I,  too,  was  wrapped  in  weariness.  Life  in 
Africa  seemed  to  me  to  be  inconceivably  petty. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LOVE  CALLS 

"Ah,  Love!  there  ig  no  better  thing  than  this, 
To  have  known  love,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is. " 

ON  the  Fort  George  side  of  the  court  next  day 
I  noticed  a  woman  I  had  not  seen  before. 
She  was  handsome  and  rather  extraordinary 
looking,  and  had  a  number  of  men  talking  to  her ; 
but  she  did  not  join  the  Fort  George  ladies,  and 
for  their  part  they  took  no  notice  of  her  at  all. 
I  wondered  why,  for  they  had  struck  me  as  being 
pleasant,  friendly  souls,  kindly  disposed  to  all 
the  world. 

She  had  rather  a  sallow  skin,  that  made  her 
brilliant  hair  and  bright  red  mouth  all  the 
more  amazing;  and  there  was  an  odd,  defiant 
air  about  her,  yet  something  curiously  wistful  in 
the  glances  she  sent  across  the  court  at  me  from 
her  murky  brown  eyes.  She  laughed  a  great 
deal  with  the  men  talking  to  her,  but  I  thought 
her  laugh  a  little  too  merry.  In  a  tailor-made 
fashion  she  was  exceedingly  well  dressed — quite 
the  best  turned  out  woman  I  had  seen  so  far, 

118 


Love  Calls  119 

though  Anna  Cleeve  certainly  knew  how  to  put 
on  her  clothes  if  she  only  had  any  to  put  on.  I 
wondered  why  this  pretty  woman  was  unhappy, 
for  even  in  my  limited  experience  I  had  discovered 
that  it  is  generally  the  woman  who  has  missed 
happiness,  who  tries  to  fill  in  the  little  round  hole 
in  her  heart  with  clothes — the  smartest  and  pretti- 
est she  can  find.  Happy  women  usually  have 
too  much  in  their  lives  to  bother  about  making 
a  fine  art  of  dressing.  Of  course,  with  girls  it 
is  different;  they  naturally  love  pretty  clothes 
and  they  have  a  right  to  them. 

I  wished  she  would  come  round  to  our  side  of 
the  court  and  let  me  see  her  properly,  but  she 
did  not.  Later  I  observed  that  the  rest  of  the 
women  only  looked  at  her  when  she  was  not 
looking;  at  other  times  they  looked  through  her 
and  past  her  and  over  her.  At  last  I  became 
aware  that  she  was  taboo.  Even  the  men  who 
stood  about  her  were  not  the  nicest  men,  and  I 
observed  that  no  one  went  from  our  side  to  speak 
to  her,  except  Major  Kinsella,  who,  as  soon  as  he 
arrived,  shook  hands  and  stood  talking  for  some 
little  time,  at  which  her  pleasure  was  obvious; 
afterwards  the  looks  she  cast  at  the  other  women 
were  more  defiant  than  ever.  Consumed  with 
curiosity  I  addressed  a  query  to  Judy  sitting 
next  to  me. 

"That  person?"  said  she,  looking  another  way. 
"She  calls  herself  Rookwood,  I  believe." 

"What   has  she  done?"   I  asked.     It  was  so 


120  The  Claw 

very  evident  that  the  poor  wretch  had  done 
something. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,"  said  Judy  in  a  far-away 
voice.  But  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  who  sat 
on  my  other  side,  was  not  so  reserved. 

"  Do  you  see  that  big  fair  man  with  her?  That 
is  Captain  Rookwood.  Handsome,  isn't  he? 
She  lives  with  him. " 

"Do  you  mean  she  is  married  to  him?" 

"Married  to  him — not  at  all.  She  is  married 
to  a  man  called  Geach,  in  Cape  Town,  but  she 
ran  away  from  him  with  George  Rookwood,  and 
they  have  been  living  together  for  six  months 
now.  Her  husband  by  way  of  revenge  refuses 
to  divorce  her.  Is  n't  it  insolent  of  her  to  come 
here  amongst  us?" 

"Of  course  she  always  has  a  dozen  men  round 
her,"  Judy  supplemented  in  a  low  voice;  "they 
do  so  love  a  declassee  woman,  don't  they?" 

Afterwards  I  learnt  that  the  man  Geach  was 
an  enormous  brute  of  a  half-Dutch  colonial,  who 
drank,  and  had  been  in  the  habit  of  beating  his 
wife  constantly,  and  had  once  dragged  her  all 
through  the  streets  of  Claremont  by  her  amazing 
hair.  Another  time  he  had  dipped  her  in  the  sea 
before  a  crowd  of  people,  and  had  afterwards  been 
horsewhipped  by  the  crowd. 

Of  course,  both  as  a  Catholic  and  as  a  femme  du 
monde  I  was  agacee  at  these  things.  I  knew  that 
none  of  Mrs.  Geach's  sufferings  singly  or  together 
constituted  any  excuse  for  her  running  away  with 


Love  Calls  121 

another  man  who  happened  to  love  her  and  would 
be  good  to  her.  It  was  to  be  supposed  that  she 
knew  this,  too,  and  that  if  she  did  such  a  terrible 
thing  she  would  not  only  be  committing  a  mortal 
sin,  but  must  thereafter  be  struck  off  the  rolls 
and  disqualified  for  any  kind  of  social  life. 
However,  she  had  chosen  to  do  it ;  so  now  she  had 
a  merry  laugh  and  a  defiant  mouth,  and  gave 
more  attention  to  her  clothes  than  most  women. 

In  spite  of  her  sins  I  could  not  help  being 
thankful  that  there  is  no  law,  religious  or  worldly, 
that  forbids  one  to  feel  sorry  for  wistful-eyed 
sinners.  Also,  I  began  to  dislike  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe  very  much  indeed.  It  struck  me  that 
she  arrogated  altogether  too  much  holiness  to 
herself,  and  that  a  little  charity  and  loving-kind- 
ness would  not  be  out  of  place  in  her  moral 
make-up.  I  was  mentally  arranging  something 
polite  with  a  bite  in  it  to  say  to  her,  when  Major 
Kinsella  came  and  sat  down  beside  me  in  the 
chair  Judy  had  just  left,  and  after  that  I  was  too 
busy  arranging  polite  bites  for  his  benefit  to  re- 
member Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  and  her  malice. 

It  had  been  raining  all  the  morning,  drenching, 
thudding  rain  that  flooded  the  land  with  small 
lakes  and  rushing  rivulets;  the  first  taste  of  the 
"wet  season,"  every  one  said,  though  it  was  not 
really  due  until  November.  I  had  looked  forward 
disconsolately  to  a  dreary  afternoon  indoors. 
But  by  two  o'clock  every  trace  of  wetness  had 
disappeared  with  the  extraordinary  haste  that 


122  The  Claw 

distinguishes  the  drying  up  of  the  rain  in  the 
High  Veldt.  Only  the  freshly  washed  land  gave 
up  a  ravishing  odour  under  the  hot  sunshine, 
and  the  sky  above  was  a  turquoise  plain,  across 
which  some  giant  hand  had  moved,  sweeping 
all  the  billowy  clouds  into  one  great  mass  in  the 
west.  There  they  lay  piled  one  above  the  other 
in  snowy  splendour.  A  blaze  of  hot  light  poured 
down  on  to  the  court,  making  the  women  droop 
and  blench  in  their  chairs.  But  my  veins  sang 
with  delight.  Never  had  I  known  such  delicious 
heat,  and  I  loved  it,  and  felt  like  a  marigold  flaring 
and  revelling  in  the  golden  shine.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  had  never  really  been  alive  before 
I  felt  the  heat  of  the  African  sun.  I  said  so  to 
Anthony  Kinsella,  and  his  blue  eyes  flashed  at  me. 

"You  will  never  be  able  to  live  away  from  it 
now." 

I  laughed,  but  I  suddenly  felt  the  clutching 
thrill  again. 

"Oh,  one  could  not  live  here  always,"  I  said 
abruptly.  "Away  from  music,  and  books,  and 
great  speakers,  and  sculpture,  and  pictures " 

"The  veldt  is  full  of  pictures — look  at  that 
one."  He  glanced  at  the  turquoise  plain  and 
the  billowy  clouds.  "And  can  you  tell  me  you 
have  never  heard  its  music — on  the  banks  of  a 
river  under  the  stars?" 

I  could  tell  him  nothing.  I  could  only  look 
away  from  his  eyes. 

"Great    speakers!"    he    mused.     "You    must 


Love  Calls  123 

hear  Cecil  Rhodes  some  day  telling  the  boys 
to  extend  the  Empire." 

I  did  not  speak. 

"Books  and  sculpture — they  are  good,  but 
'has  life  nothing  better  to  give  than  these'  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  said  firmly,  but  found 
myself  adding  a  moment  later,  "I  am  not  sure." 

He  answered,  "Africa  will  make  you  sure. 
She  has  a  way  of  making  it  worth  one's  while 
to  stay  with  her.  And  if  she  loves  you  she  will 
just  put  you  in  bonds  and  keep  you,  whether 
you  will  or  no." 

"She  can  never  do  that  to  me,"  I  said,  almost 
vehemently.  "I  am  too  exigeante,  and  I  do 
not  like  bonds.  Let  us  pray  that  she  will  not 
love  me."  I  essayed  to  laugh  lightly,  but  my 
heart  was  beating  in  my  throat,  and  an  unaccount- 
able agitation  shook  me.  It  seemed  ridiculous 
to  be  so  moved  about  nothing,  sitting  out  there 
in  the  steaming  sunshine  with  all  life  smiling. 
We  were  both  staring  before  us  away  across  the 
court  and  its  players  to  the  amethystine  hills 
on  the  edge  of  the  world.  He  did  not  look  at  me, 
nor  I  at  him,  but  in  a  low  voice  that  none  but  I 
could  hear  he  said  a  strange  thing: 

"For  your  sake  I  could  go  back  to  prayers — 
but  do  not  ask  me  to  pray  that. " 


Mrs.  Valetta  came  in  to  look  at  the  mirror  as 
I  was  hunting  for  something  for  dinner. 


124  The  Claw 

"You  needn't  change,"  she  said.  "Just  turn 
in  the  collar  of  your  dress  and  sling  a  fichu  round 
your  neck.  I  '11  lend  you  one  if  you  have  n't 
got  one."  She  had  something  in  her  hand  that 
looked  like  the  tail  of  an  old  ball-gown." 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  I  said  fervently.  "I 
have  too  much  respect  for  a  good  gown  to  treat 
it  in  that  fashion." 

I  made  haste  to  spread  upon  the  bed  a  little 
black  lace  frock  that  I  had  brought  for  ordinary 
home  use  to  wear  in  the  evenings.  Judy  strolled 
in  and  gazed  dejectedly  at  it. 

"Every  one  will  think  it  fearfully  sidey  of  you 
to  wear  that,"  she  said  at  last,  quite  animatedly 
for  her. 

"Oh,  but  I  am  sidey,"  I  announced,  laughing. 
For  some  reason  I  did  not  understand  I  felt  as 
though  I  had  a  happy  red  robin  in  the  place  where 
my  heart  used  to  be.  But  Judy  and  Mrs.  Va- 
letta  met  my  gaiety  with  scowls.  I  tried  to 
propitiate  them,  for  I  felt  kindly  disposed  to  all 
the  world. 

"It  is  not  really  an  evening  gown,  only  a  little 
demi- toilette — long  sleeves  and  a  V;  and  I  have 
nothing  else.  Still,  I  won't  wear  it  if  you  have 
any  real  objection,  Judy." 

But  already  her  interest  in  the  matter  was  dead. 
As  for  Mrs.  Valetta,  she  had  left  the  room  utterly 
sick  of  life.  I  hardly  recognised  her  for  the  same 
woman  half  an  hour  later,  when  I  went  in  to 
dinner  and  found  her  seated  there, — in  a  chrys- 


Love  Calls  125 

anthemum-chiffon  gown  covered  with  Indian 
embroideries.  Her  corsage  was  composed  of  about 
three  sequins,  a  piece  of  chiffon  the  size  of  a 
handkerchief,  and  a  large  diamond  brooch. 

Annabel  Cleeve  and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe, 
who  were  dining  with  us,  were  also  en  grande  tenue. 
My  poor  little  black  lace  frock  would  have 
looked  quite  dowdy  amongst  them  if  it  had  not 
happened  to  be  of  such  a  distinguished  cut. 
Even  Judy  had  slung  an  evening  gown  of  sorts 
upon  her  languid  bones. 

Unfortunately,  the  menu  was  not  in  keeping 
with  our  brilliant  toilettes.  The  soup  had  a 
terrible  flavour  of  tin,  and  was  followed  by 
floppy-looking  shoulder  of  mutton  which  had 
the  appearance  of  having  been  but  recently  slain. 
I  remembered  that  I  had  seen  Mafoota,  the  cook, 
leading  a  forlorn,  predestined-looking  goat  by  its 
horn  that  morning,  and  I  could  not  but  connect 
the  two  facts.  The  eyes  of  the  potatoes,  huge 
and  black,  glared  at  us  dully  from  their  dish, 
and  a  boiled  ladybird  reclined  upon  the  infini- 
tesimal helping  of  cabbage  that  was  apportioned 
to  me.  No  fish,  no  entrees,  no  wines ;  mountains 
of  "pumpkin.  Every  one  except  Anna  Cleeve 
and  I  took  a  whiskey  and  soda,  and  that  may  have 
been  some  help.  For  dessert  some  woolly  pudding, 
made  of  pale  blue  rice,  with  American  canned 
peaches.  I  had  eaten  some  lovely  peaches  at 
the  Cape,  but  it  takes  American  enterprise  to 
penetrate  into  the  wilds  of  Africa.  Judy  spake 


126  The  Claw 

the  thing  that  was  when  she  said  she  had  no 
genius  for  entertaining.  I  made  no  bones  about 
bantering  her  on  the  subject. 

"It  is  easy  to  see  there  is  no  man  about  the 
house,  Judy.  Such  a  dazzling  banquet  could 
only  be  served  at  a  hen-party." 

"Nonsense,"  said  she,  smiling  idly.  "I  have 
trained  Dick  to  live  the  simple  life  too.  He 
does  n't  care  a  scrap  what  he  gets  now.  What 
is  the  use  of  worrying  about  the  menu?  There 
is  nothing  to  be  got  here  in  any  case  except  tinned 
things  and  goat." 

"Yes,  but  they  need  n't  taste  of  the  tin.  And 
goat  should  be  disguised.  As  it  is  I  recognise 
this  one.  Hardly  a  decent  interval  has  elapsed 
since  I  met  it  walking  with  Mafoota. " 

They  all  laughed.  There  was  something  to 
be  said  for  life  in  Mashonaland.  It  certainly 
induced  a  sort  of  gay  tolerance  for  general  dis- 
comfort. Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  began  to  brag 
about  a  lovely  goat  curry  she  had  had  for  lunch 
the  day  before,  that  no  one  had  been  able  to  tell 
from  curried  prawns. 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Judy;  "but  you  and  Anna 
have  Mrs.  Brand's  Adriana  to  cook  for  you.  I 
have  no  one  but  the  boys,  and  you  know  what 
they  are.  I  've  told  them  dozens  of  times  about 
taking  the  eyes  out  of  the  potatoes,  but  there 
you  are — just  look  at  them." 

"They  're  looking  at  us,"  I  objected. 

"Why  not  have  them  roasted  whole  in  their 


Love  Calls  127 

jackets?"  suggested  Mrs.  Valetta.  "They're 
much  nicer  that  way,  and  it  would  obviate  the 
peeling  difficulty." 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Judy,  looking 
surprised.  "As  for  supper  to-night,  I  haven't 
the  faintest  notion  of  what  people  are  going  to 
eat.  Let  us  hope  they  won't  be  hungry. " 

I  reflected  that  if  they  had  all  dined  as  badly 
as  we  had  they  would  be  ravenous,  and  for  the 
honour  of  the  house  I  said  so  with  such  delicacy 
as  I  could  command.  But  delicacy  was  wasted 
on  my  sister-in-law. 

"It  is  no  use  their  bringing  sybaritic  appetites 
here,"  she  said.  "Cheese  sandwiches  and  a 
whiskey  and  soda  is  the  best  I  can  do,  and  it  ought 
to  be  good  enough  for  any  one — unless  you  will 
undertake  the  menu  and  serve  something  better, 
Deirdre." 

"Will  you  let  me?" 

"Certainly,  I  give  you  carte  blanche.  Do 
anything  you  like,  dear,  and  begin  on  the  coffee. 
Did  any  one  ever  taste  such  stuff  as  these  boys 
make?" 

So  1  went  out  into  the  kitchen,  which  was  really 
a  back  verandah  closed  in  with  native  matting, 
and  was  full  of  smoke  and  jabbering  boys.  The 
utensils  were  all  very  inferior.  The  spout  of 
the  kettle  was  off,  and  the  water  had  to  be  boiled 
in  a  large  iron  pot,  while  the  boys  crowded  round 
me,  staring  solemnly  and  falling  over  each  other 
and  getting  in  the  way.  But  the  quality  of 


128  The  Claw 

the  coffee  was  good,  and  when  at  last  the  water 
boiled  I  achieved.  It  took  a  long  time,  though, 
and  while  I  was  busy  I  could  hear  the  knocks 
at  the  front  door  and  the  laughter  of  new  arrivals. 
When  I  took  in  my  coffee-pot  the  room  was  full 
of  the  smoke  of  cigarettes,  and  everybody  wanted 
to  taste  my  brew.  Afterwards  they  raved  about 
it,  and  complained  bitterly  that  there  was  not 
enough  to  go  round.  So  I  went  back  to  make 
more,  but  this  time  I  brewed  it  in  a  big  enamel 
jug.  Just  as  I  was  dropping  in  a  tiny  pinch  of 
salt  to  flavour  it  and  make  all  the  grounds  settle 
at  the  bottom,  a  shadow  fell  across  my  hands, 
and  looking  up  I  found  Anthony  Kinsella  leaning 
in  the  doorway  and  observing  me  with  the  deepest 
interest. 

"I  think  that  is  what  you  have  done  to  me/' 
he  observed  solemnly. 

"What?"  said  I  in  astonishment. 

"Put  a  pinch  of  salt  on  me." 

Our  eyes  met,  and  we  both  burst  into  laughter. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  very  tame,"  I  said. 

"Tame!     This  is  the  first  soiree  I  Ve  been  to  in 
this  country.     They  're  quite  out  of  my  line." 

"I  know  what  brought  you  to-night,"  I  said. 

"So  do  I,"  he  answered  swiftly,  with  that 
glance  of  his  eyes  that  made  my  lids  fall. 
-  My  heart  experienced  an  extraordinary  contract- 
ed feeling,  as  though  some  one  had  taken  hold  of  it 
and  was  holding  it  tightly.  Then  I  remembered 
all  the  enigmatical  sayings  I  had  heard  about 


Love  Calls  129 

this  man,  and  his  dangerous  attraction  for  women, 
and  in  a  moment  I  recovered  myself  and  answered 
with  a  mocking  smile: 

"You  have  heard  rumours  of  the  great  spread 
I  am  going  to  put  before  my  sister-in-law's  guests 
to-night.  It  has  got  about  what  an  excellent 
cook  I  am." 

He  opened  his  lips,  to  make  some  further 
saying,  but  I  gave  him  no  time. 

"Come  and  taste  my  Turkish  coffee,"  I  said, 
and  walked  out  with  my  jug,  colliding  with  Mrs. 
Valetta,  who  was  evidently  coming  to  look  for  us. 

"You  are  wanted  to  play  poker,  Kim,"  said 
she  curtly.  "Do  play  with  me;  you  are  always 
so  lucky." 

"Ah,  but  I  am  going  to  be  unlucky  at  cards 
in  future, "  he  oddly  answered  as  they  followed 
me  in. 

I  got  more  compliments  for  my  coffee.  Every 
one  said  it  was  delicious.  Greedy  people  asked 
for  second  and  even  third  cups.  Colonel  Blow 
was  heard  to  state  that  he  had  never  tasted  any- 
thing like  it  since  he  was  in  Paris  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

"That  is  just  where  I  learned  to  make  it,"  I 
said  gaily.  "In  my  racketty  student  days  in 
the  Quartier." 

Every  one  looked  amazed  and  I  suppose  it  was 
rather  an  amazing  thing  to  say. 

"In  your  what  days?"  asked  Miss  Cleeve 
faintly. 


130  The  Claw 

And  Mrs.  Valetta  said  in  a  curious  voice :  "  Can 
you  possibly  mean  the  Latin  Quarter  of  Paris?" 

"I  can,  indeed,"  quoth  I  affably.  "I  once  had 
a  studio  there  for  six  months,  and  all  the  art 
students  used  to  come  in  the  evening  and  make 
coffee  and  Welsh  rarebit,  and  every  delicious 
imaginable  thing." 

"My  sister-in-law's  guardian  is  an  American 
artist  with  eccentric  ideas  about  educating  girls 
to  see  every  phase  of  life,"  said  Judy  in  the 
stuffiest,  snuffiest  kind  of  voice.  "Of  course, 
Deirdre  had  a  chaperon." 

"Yes,  and  she  was  far  more  racketty  than  I," 
said  I  with  malice  prepense.  Elizabet  von  Stohl 
would  have  fallen  down  dead  if  she  could  have 
heard  herself  so  traduced!  But  I  was  feeling 
very  much  annoyed  with  Judy  for  speaking  in 
that  way  about  dear  Betty  and  her  lovely  liberal 
ideas.  The  men  for  some  reason  or  other  thought 
my  remark  very  amusing,  but  the  women  all 
looked  frightfully  disdainful,  except  Mrs.  Brand, 
who  spoke  one  of  her  brief,  eloquent  sentences: 

"It  must  have  been  rippin'." 

There  were  peals  of  laughter,  and  I  looked  at 
her  in  astonishment,  and  found  that  she  had  quite 
a  friendly  enthusiastic  air. 

"And  so  is  this  coffee  rippin',"  said  Gerry 
Deshon.  "You'll  have  to  give  us  all  lessons, 
Miss  Saurin,  or  we  '11  never  dare  ask  you  to 
supper. " 

"Oh,  that's  nothing   to   what   I  can  do,"  I 


Love  Calls  131 

bragged.  "You  should  taste  my  cup — and  I  'm 
a  frightful  dab  at  rum-punch."  I  had  all  the 
women  very  cross  by  now,  so  I  thought  they 
might  as  well  stay  so.  The  men,  on  the  contrary, 
were  as  gay  as  larks  at  heaven's  gate  singing. 
"And  I  'm  going  to  give  a  Quartier  Latin  supper 
to-night,"  I  told  them;  "Welsh  rarebit,  les 
apotres  sur  les  bicyclettes,  devilled  eggs — 

"There  are  no  materials  in  the  house  for  all 
these  things,"  protested  Judy  crossly. 

"Then  we  must  commandeer  them,"  said 
Major  Kinsella.  "We'll  make  up  a  foraging 
party  at  once.  Come  on  and  open  your 
winkel,  Dennison.  Hunloke,  buck  up." 

Tommy  Dennison  was  the  cheeky  Oxford 
undergraduate  whose  father  owned  about  forty 
thousand  acres  somewhere  in  Scotland  and  one 
of  the  smartest  yachts  to  be  seen  at  Cowes;  but 
Tommy  was  a  younger  son  and  a  black  sheep, 
so  he  kept  a  shop  in  Fort  George  with  Hunloke, 
the  long-nosed  barrister.  They  were  always  pro- 
claiming bitterly  that  no  one  ever  paid  their 
bills  and  that  they  should  shortly  go  bust. 

A  small  but  select  party  of  buccaneers  was 
formed,  including  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  Mrs. 
Brand,  and  myself.  The  others  had  their  cards 
already  dealt  and  their  half-crowns  staked  on 
the  table,  so  they  had  to  continue  the  game 
whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  Anna  Cleeve  and 
Mrs.  Valetta  did  not  appear  pleased,  and  Judy 
gave  me  a  chaperony  sort  of  look  of  which  I 


132  The  Claw 

took  not  the  slightest  notice.  She  then  remarked 
with  great  point  and  significance  that  the  night 
air  was  very  dangerous.  But  the  others  cried 
her  down  saying  that  it  was  balmy  and  healthy, 
and  the  only  air,  in  fact,  that  was  any  good  at  all. 
Mrs.  Brand  said  she  would  chaperon  me,  but  as 
soon  as  we  got  out  of  doors  she  went  off  with 
Gerry  Deshon.  Some  of  the  others  ran  ahead 
with  Mr.  Hunloke  to  get  the  keys  of  the  shop,  and 
I  found  myself  walking  alone  with  Anthony 
Kinsella. 

It  was  a  lovely  night,  full  of  a  sort  of  veiled 
radiance,  shed  from  a  deep  purple  sky  embroidered 
with  silver  stars.  Strange  insects  in  the  grass 
were  calling  to  each  other  shrilly,  and  heavy 
on  the  air  hung  the  divine  odour  of  wild  clematis 
of  which  almost  every  little  house  had  a  drapery 
over  walls  or  verandah. 

Anthony  Kinsella  plucked  a  spray  from  a  wall 
as  we  passed,  and  put  it  in  my  hand  without 
speaking,  but  our  hands  touched  and  I  saw  his 
intent  eyes  for  a  moment.  I  fastened  the  flower 
into  the  front  of  my  black  gown,  and  the  scent 
of  it  will  stay  with  me  all  my  life.  I  suddenly 
felt  so  happy  I  could  have  sung  aloud.  Africa 
seemed  all  at  once  to  have  turned  into  a  land  of 
fair  dreams,  in  which  I  was  a  happy  wanderer, 
travelling  towards  my  heart's  desire.  I  did  not 
analyse  my  feelings  nor  ask  myself  any  questions. 
I  only  knew  that  my  eyes  were  unsealed  to  the 
beauty  and  mystery  of  life. 


Love  Calls  133 


In  a  few  moments  we  had  reached  the  shop — 
a  galvanised-iron  building  with  "Hunloke  and 
Dennison"  painted  in  huge  black  letters  across 
its  roof.  The  others  had  already  arrived  with 
the  keys,  and  we  were  admitted  into  a  perfect 
paradise  of  tinned  goods.  Candles  were  hastily 
burst  from  their  packets  and  stuck  in  lighted  rows 
along  the  counter,  and  the  general  public  was 
invited  by  the  owners  of  the  shop  to  "pay  their 
money  and  take  their  choice."  This,  however,  was 
a  mere  form  of  speech.  Apparently  no  one  paid 
for  anything  in  happy-go-lucky  Mashonaland. 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  was  helped  up  on  the 
counter  and  walked  along  it,  inspecting  the  things 
on  the  top  shelves  and  handing  them  down.  The 
rest  of  us  made  dives  at  anything  we  liked  the  look 
of,  and  the  winkel  of  Messrs.  Hunloke  and  Den- 
nison resounded  with  shouts  of  glee  and  triumph. 

"Olives!" 

"This  lovely  pink  curly  bacon — just  the  thing 
to  make  bicycles  for  my  apostles  to  ride  on. 
Banzai!  " 

"Hooray!  here  are  some  anchovies!" 

"Say !  Six  cans  of  oysters ! "  cried  Mr.  Hunloke 
himself.  "I  didn't  know  we  had  these  left, 
Tommy.  I  '11  shew  you  fellows  how  to  make 
clam  chowder.  I  Ve  got  to  show  you. " 

"Who  says  tinned  pineapples?" 

"Fids  I  gloat!  Sardines  a  Vtomate.  All  we 
want  now  is  the  toast — that 's  easy!" 


134  The  Claw 

"You  've  still  a  case  of  Pommery-and-Greno 
left,  Tommy,  my  man.  Trot  it  out!" 

"Yes,  and  what  about  that  Bass's  ale  you  and 
Hunloke  keep  all  to  your  own  cheek?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Saurin,  I  Ve  found  some  crystallised 
fruit !  And  hurrah !  here  's  a  big  bottle  of  eau- 
de-cologne!" 

Every  one  howled  with  delight  at  this  artless 
testimony  from  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  that 
in  her  at  least  the  legitimate  business  of  foraging 
for  commissariat  had  become  merged  in  the  wild 
spirit  of  the  filibuster.  Some  one  began  to  softly 
sing, 

"Loot!    Loot!     Loot!" 

At  last,  after  selecting  about  two  waggon-loads 
of  articles,  including  champagne  and  claret  for 
"cup,"  a  large  bottle  of  eau-de-cologne,  a  box 
of  toilette  soap,  and  several  strings  of  blue  beads, 
we  stood  and  gazed  with  the  eyes  of  conquerors 
upon  the  wondrous  heaps.  The  question  then 
arose  as  to  who  was  to  carry  these  things  to  the 
theatre  of  war.  There  was  great  argument  about 
this.  A  peculiarity  about  African  men  is  that 
they  have  a  great  objection  to  carrying  any- 
thing. They  would  far  rather  argue  about  it 
for  two  hours  and  then  spend  another  two  looking 
for  a  boy.  Eventually  three  wild  men  engaged 
to  find  boys  for  the  task. 

"Yes!  even  if  we  have  to  pull  them  out  of 


Love  Calls  135 

kingdom  come,"  they  averred.  The  rest  of  us 
started  for  home.  How  it  came  about  that 
Anthony  Kinsella  and  I  were  once  more  alone 
together  I  cannot  tell.  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe 
disappeared  into  the  moonlight  with  Mr.  Hun- 
loke  and  some  others.  Mrs.  Brand  was  ahead 
again  with  Gerry  Deshon,  though  I  could  not 
but  observe  that  the  direction  of  her  march  was 
not  in  the  direction  of  home.  Her  voice  came 
floating  back  to  me: 

"  Don't  go  in  without  me,  will  you?  Remember 
that  you  are  chaperoning  me." 

"Will  you  mind  if  I  call  at  the  post -office?" 
asked  my  companion  suddenly,  out  of  the  silence 
that  encompassed  us.  "I  expect  an  important 
wire  from  headquarters. " 

Of  course  I  did  not  mind.  I  minded  nothing 
but  that  this  enchanted  hour  must  soon  be  over. 
Slowly  we  sauntered  onwards  through  the  silver 
night,  and  came  at  last,  however  much  we  loitered, 
to  the  post-office.  It  was  closed,  but  a  light 
shone  in  a  window,  and  Major  Kinsella  rapped 
and  hailed  the  mad  postmaster  by  name: 

"Bleksley,  hullo!"  Instantly  the  window  was 
opened,  and  the  divine  performer  upon  banjos 
put  out  his  blond  rumpled  head : 

"Wire  come,  Bleksley?" 

"Not  yet,  but  the  mails  from  Victoria  are  just 
in  by  runner.  If  you  could  wait  a  few  minutes 
until  I  unseal  them  and  sort  out  the  private 
letters 


136  The  Claw 

Major  Kinsella  hesitated,  looking  at  me. 

"Of  course — certainly  wait,"  I  said  hastily. 
"I  don't  mind." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "If  it  were  my  own 
business  it  could  rip — but  it 's  the  country's." 

"I  shan't  be  more  than  five  or  six  minutes," 
said  the  postmaster.  "Would  you  like  to  go  up 
into  the  watch-tower  to  wait?" 

He  handed  out  a  key  through  the  window.  The 
watch-tower  adjoined  the  post-office,  and  had  been 
built  for  the  double  purpose  of  overlooking  the 
prison-yard  and  for  the  wide  outlook  it  afforded 
of  the  surrounding  native  kraals.  The  view  from 
there  was  notoriously  charming,  and  I  had  heard 
all  about  it  from  several  people  and  been  told  that 
I  should  see  it  by  moonlight.  This  seemed  to  be 
a  good  opportunity. 

"Will  you  come?"  said  Anthony  Kinsella 
abruptly.  "The  view  is  supposed  to  be  very 
fine." 

Mr.  Bleksley  had  already  closed  the  window 
and  returned  to  his  work. 

"On  such  a  night  as  this  it  should  be  perfect, " 
I  said.  So  we  climbed  the  dark,  steep  stair 
together. 

The  instant  we  put  our  feet  on  the  first  step 
he  took  my  hand  which  hung  at  my  side,  inter- 
lacing his  fingers  through  mine.  Hands  can  tell 
each  other  so  much.  I  suddenly  knew  things 
I  had  never  dreamed  of  before  with  the  feel  of 
Anthony  Kinsella's  warm,  strong  hand  clasping 


Love  Calls  137 

mine,  and  from  the  close  contact  of  his  palm 
against  mine  some  wonderful,  strange  message 
flew  up  my  arm  to  my  heart  and  brain,  flooding 
me  with  a  thrilling  ecstasy  I  could  hardly  bear. 
When  we  reached  the  tower's  top  I  think  we 
both  knew  all  there  was  to  say  though  no  word 
had  been  spoken.  We  leaned  against  the  low 
enclosing  walls  and  looked  down  upon  a  land 
a-wash  with  silver  moonlight  and  far-off  ebony 
hills  draped  with  scarves  of  mist. 

"Deirdre!" 

He  spoke  my  name  with  all  the  crake  gone  from 
his  voice,  and  again  it  was  as  if  I  heard  the  music 
of  an  old  song  I  had  known  all  my  life.  I  could 
not  answer  him.  Faintness  stole  over  me  and  a 
strange  trembling  sweetness  held  me  in  thrall. 
My  heart  glowed  like  a  red-hot  coal  with  a  cool 
wind  blowing  on  it. 

"Deirdre! — what  a  name  for  a  man's  wife. 
Deirdre,  I  love  you!  I  want  your  heart  and 
body  and  soul.  Look  at  me,  darling." 

I  turned  to  him,  and  our  eyes  met  in  a  long 
glance.  Then  mine  fell  as  always  before  his, 
as  if  weighted  with  little  heavy  stones. 

"Give  me  your  soul,  Deirdre,"  he  said,  and 
with  my  eyes  still  closed,  unhesitatingly,  un- 
swervingly, I  put  out  my  two  hands  and  laid 
them  in  his  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  in  them; 
and  he  kissed  them,  and  my  hair,  and  my  lips. 
He  took  me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  my  eyes. 

"I  have  loved  you  from  the  moment  I  first  saw 


138  The  Claw 

you,"  he  said.  "Have  n't  you  felt  my  kisses  on 
your  eyelids  whenever  I  looked  at  you,  Deirdre?" 

So  I  knew  at  last  what  it  was  in  his  burning 
glance  that  had  always  closed  my  eyes. 

"You  are  like  an  exquisite  flower, "  he  muttered, 
"too  beautiful  to  be  worn  in  my  soiled  heart. 
But  I  will  wear  you,"  he  fiercely  added. 

"'Who  loves  flowers  loves  sorrow."  The  old 
French  proverb  came  uncalled  to  my  lips. 

"You  and  I  cannot  love  without  sorrow," 
he  said,  branding  the  words  on  my  lips  with  his. 

Ah!  God  knows  I  was  all  woman  then,  throb- 
bing, aching  woman  in  the  arms  of  the  man  I 
loved. 

"Let  me  see  your  eyes,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
thrilled  like  a  violin  bow  across  the  strings  of 
my  heart.  "I  shall  go  mad  if  you  do  not  open 
your  eyes." 

And  I  opened  them  to  the  beauty  of  his  face. 

Ah,  yes,  he  was  beautiful!  He  had  the  beauty 
of  the  gods.  If  I  were  half  so  beautiful  at  that 
moment  it  was  no  wonder  that  his  lips  were  pale 
though  they  burnt  like  flame,  that  his  hands  shook 
and  his  voice  stammered. 

"Speak  to  me!"  he  cried.  "Say  that  you  love 
me!" 

"I  think  I  have  always  loved  you,  Anthony — 
ever  since  that  night  I  first  saw  you,  when  you 
beguiled  me  with  your  sweet  words  to  come  to 
this  strange  land.  Yes,  I  know  now  it  was  for 
you  I  came  across  the  sea — for  you — to  you. " 


Love  Calls  139 

"Heart  of  my  heart!  For  you  I  will  go  back 
to  my  boyhood's  dreams — to  the  old  sweet  creeds ! 
I  will  wipe  my  life  clean  of  sins,  and  make  it 
worth  your  beauty  and  purity 

Ah!  It  is  a  most  wonderful  and  exquisite 
thing  to  be  alone  in  the  empty,  silent,  moonlit 
world  with  the  man  you  love  and  who  loves  you. 
But  our  gracious  dream  was  soon  interrupted. 
The  postmaster  called  out  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  we  distinguished  the  approaching  voices  of 
Mrs.  Brand  and  some  others. 

"Come,  love,"  said  Anthony  to  me  simply  and 
softly,  and  drew  me  down  the  stairway.  In  the 
kindly  darkness  he  kissed  me  again  in  a  strong, 
sweet,  wonderful  way,  and  for  one  more  radiant 
moment  I  felt  the  almost  anguished  joy — half 
terror  and  half  exquisite  peace — that  comes  to  a 
girl  who, 'loving  for  the  first  time,  finds  herself 
in  the  arms  of  the  one  right  man  in  all  the  world 
for  her. 

"Say  you  love  me,"  he  passionately  whispered, 
and  I  as  passionately  whispered  back: 

"I  love  you — I  love.  There  is  no  one  in  the 
world  like  you." 


"I  believe  there  is  a  search-party  out  for  us," 
said  Gerry  Deshon  as  soon  as  we  came  from  the 
post-office.  "We've  spied  about  five  couples, 
all  diligently  looking  the  other  way." 

"Any  excuse  to  get  out  into  the  moonlight," 


140  The  Claw 

laughed  Anthony.  He  had  his  careless-eyed, 
impassive  mask  on  once  more. 

"And  it  is  plain  that  some  one  has  already 
begun  to  prepare  the  banquet,"  cried  Mr.  Hun- 
loke.  "I  smell  a  most  outrageous  smell  of  Welsh 
rarebit  desecrating  the  night  air." 

I  remember  very  little  in  detail  of  the  rest  of 
that  enchanted  night.  I  know  that  every  one 
was  very  gay  and  merry,  and  none  more  so  than 
I,  with  a  heart  singing  like  a  bird  in  my  breast. 
After  scrambling  in  the  kitchen  for  hours,  laugh- 
ing, blacking  our  hands  and  smearing  our  features, 
getting  smoke  in  our  eyes  and  ashes  down  our 
throats  from  three  large  fires  out  of  doors,  a 
banquet  was  served  in  the  preparing  of  which 
at  least  fifty  people  had  a  hand  and  the  like  of 
which  was  never  seen  before  or  since  in  Mashona- 
land.  The  odour  thereof  permeated  to  every 
hut  and  home  and  lured  men  from  their  beds. 
People  I  had  never  seen  before  arrived  upon  the 
scene  and  joined  in  the  proceedings — even  the 
frumps  and  dowds  and  the  business-like  men. 
We  were  all 

"Glad  together  in  gladsome  mood 
And  joyful  in  joyous  lustre." 

Anthony  brewed  a  bowl  of  punch  flavoured 
with  blue  beads  that  ravished  the  hearts  of  all 
men  who  tasted  it;  and  Gerry  Deshon  brewed 
an  opposition  bowl  which  he  called  "potheen" 


Love  Calls  141 

and  engaged  attention  to  by  monotonously 
beating  a  kaffir  tom-tom  over  it,  the  sound  of 
which  brought  the  remaining  stragglers  into  camp. 
By  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  moon  was  low 
in  the  heavens  but  the  campfires  blazed  high, 
almost  every  one  in  the  town  was  seated  -round 
the  white  cloths  spread  upon  the  stubbly  grass. 
I  recognised  the  postmaster's  beautifully  em- 
broidered tea-cloth  among  the  rest.  No  one 
gave  a  thought  to  grass-ticks  or  mosquitoes.  How 
should  they  when  the  feast  was  eaten  to  the 
strains  of  the  postmaster's  banjo  and  his  charming 
tenor  voice  serenading  us  with  some  of  the  wild, 
sweet  melodies  of  Ireland  to  which  Moore  has 
put  words.  But  of  course,  with  the  innate 
melancholy  of  the  Celt,  he  could  not  refrain  from 
tempering  our  merriment  with  woe,  and  at  our 
blithest  he  suddenly  subdued  us  with  the  sad 
fierce  Song  of  Fionnuala : 

"Silent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water. 

Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 
While     murmuring     mournfully    Lir's      lonely 

daughter 
Tells  to  the  night  stars  the  tale  of  her  woes. 

"When  shall  the  swan  her  death-song  singing 

Sleep  with  wings  in  darkness  furled? 
When  will  Heaven  its  sweet  bell  ringing 
Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world?" 

Did  the  Irish  gift  of  foresight  descend  for  a 


142  The  Claw 

moment  upon  that  one  of  Ireland's  sons,  I  wonder? 
For  it  was  strange,  looking  back  long  after,  to 
reflect  that  never  before  had  little  Fort  George 
indulged  in  such  a  gay  and  merry  revel,  nor  ever 
did  again.  That  was  her  swan-song.  After- 
wards she  slept,  with  wings  in  darkness  furled. 

During  the  evening  Anthony  and  I  were  side 
by  side  once  more,  and  under  cover  of  all  the 
jesting  and  laughter  around  us  we  added  another 
brief  little  chapter  to  the  history  of  our  love. 
The  firelight  was  glinting  on  the  points  of  blue 
in  his  ears,  and  impulsively  I  put  up  a  finger 
and  touched  one  of  them. 

"Why  do  you  wear  them?" 

He  looked  steadily  into  the  fire  and  did  not 
answer  at  once. 

"If  you  object  to  them  I  will  not  wear  them 
any  longer,"  he  said  at  last.  But  there  was  a 
note  in  his  voice  that  chilled  my  heart. 

"Why  did  you  ever  wear  them?"  I  asked,  and 
almost  choked  on  the  words  remembering  what 
Mrs.  Valetta  had  said,  "Is  it  true  that  some  wo- 
man put  them  there?" 

He  turned  and  faced  me  quickly,  looking  into 
mine  with  those  eyes  of  his  which  I  knew  could 
not  lie. 

"Not  a  woman,  Deirdre,  a  girl — a  little  girl 
of  ten.  My  sister  put  them  in  for  a  whim  a  few 
days  before  she  died — and  they  've  been  there 
ever  since.  You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
I  would  take  them  out  for." 


Love  Calls  143 

I  remembered  how  they  said  he  had  almost 
killed  a  man  for  jeering  at  them,  how  much  chaff 
he  had  stood  from  his  friends  on  the  subject. 
I  knew  that  his  sister  had  been  dear  to  him. 

"No,  no,"  I  cried  swiftly.  "You  must  never 
take  them  out.  Wear  them  always.  I  love 
them.  To  me  they  seem  part  of  you." 

His  passionate  glance  made  me  almost  afraid 
as  he  whispered  back  under  cover  of  the  chatter 
and  laughter  around  us: 

"You  shall  kiss  them  in  for  me,  my  heart, 
and  they  shall  never  leave  me  again  until  I  die." 

When  I  looked  away  from  him  it  was  to  sec 
Maurice  Stair's  pale,  handsome  face  opposite, 
staring  before  him  with  moody  eyes. 

My  last  recollection  before  we  went  indoors, 
after  good-nights  all  round  and  many  hand- 
shakings, was  the  sight  of  Tommy  Dennison 
seated  at  the  summit  of  the  glorified  tea-house 
(which  was  Anthony  Kinsella's  hut)  performing 
on  the  flute  in  a  most  subtle  manner  while  the 
mad  Irishman,  once  more  happy,  sang: 

"Oh,  did  you  ne'er  hear  of  the  Blarney? 
That 's  found  near  the  banks  of  Killarney." 
«•••••« 

Alone  in  my  room  at  last,  I  threw  myself  down 
on  my  knees  and  thanked  God  in  broken  words 
for  my  happiness.  Joy  enfolded  my  spirit  like  a 
misty  veil  of  happiness  through  which  the  future 
was  touched  with  the  light  of  the  eternal  hills. 


144  The  Claw 

With  the  rosary  between  my  fingers  and  the 
lovely  Latin  words  of  the  Angelical  Salutation 
on  my  lips,  I  thought  of  my  mother  too  and  longed 
passionately  for  her  to  know  of  the  wonderful 
thing  that  had  come  to  me,  so  that  even  in  my 
prayers  my  thoughts  flew  out  from  me  across 
the  rolling  spaces  of  stars  to  the  still  place  of 
peace  where  my  faith  told  me  her  soul  rested, 
waiting;  and  when  at  last  I  rose  from  my  knees 
it  was  with  a  strange  feeling  that  she  knew,  that 
her  mother-spirit  was  with  me,  enfolding  me, 
rejoicing  with  me  that  all  was  well,  that  not 
tragedy  but  wonderful,  undreamed-of  happiness 
had  come  to  her  Deirdre  for  whom  she  had  feared 
so  much. 

Afterwards  I  thought  to  fall  swiftly  into  the 
waves  of  silence  and  oblivion  with  my  dream  in 
my  heart.  But  late  as  it  was,  Judy,  who  had  just 
come  in,  lingered  before  the  mirror  brushing  her 
hair,  and  she  would  talk.  She  had  gone  into 
Mrs.  Valetta's  hut  and  stayed  for  quite  an  hour, 
and  now  in  her  pink  dressing-gown,  her  fair  hair 
down  her  back,  she  was  full  of  little  endless 
languid  words  that  had  no  meaning  for  me 
wrapped  in  my  new  found  happiness.  I  closed 
my  eyes  and  strove  to  sleep  in  spite  of  her,  but 
she  presently  said  something  that  dragged  me 
back  from  sleep  and  in  one  moment  blurred  out 
the  radiance  of  my  dream. 

"And  I  want  to  warn  you  of  one  thing,  Deirdre. 
Don't  be  beguiled  into  a  flirtation  with  Anthony 


Love  Calls  145 

Kinsella.  He  's  the  most  dangerous  man  in  the 
country." 

After  an  ice-cold  moment  I  answered  her  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  to  me  like  some  one  else's. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Judy?  Why  do  you 
say  that  to  me?" 

She  was  plaiting  her  hair  then,  and  had  a 
hairpin  between  her  lips  so  that  her  voice  was  a 
little  indistinct,  but  her  words  fell  like  gunshots 
into  my  ears. 

"Well,  you  seemed  to  like  him,  rather.  You 
were  a  good  deal  together  this  evening,  were  n't 
you?  Of  course  I  know  that  you  are  well  able 
to  take  care  of  yourself,  but  a  flirtation  with 
Tony  Kinsella  should  not  be  embarked  upon 
even  by  the  most  experienced  hand.  For  one 
thing,  he  is  married." 

My  heart  stopped  beating  in  my  breast,  and 
a  pain  that  I  thought  would  have  choked  me  shot 
up  from  it  to  my  throat  .  For  a  little  time  I  was 
in  such  purely  physical  pain  that  I  believed  I 
was  dying.  My  eyes  blurred  over,  and  dimly 
as  through  a  great  darkness  I  saw  Judy's  face 
reflected  in  the  glass,  the  gleam  of  her  rings  as 
her  fingers  moved  in  and  out  of  her  fair  pale 
hair,  while  her  voice  went  monotonously,  relent- 
lessly on. 

"I  always  knew  there  was  something,  but  until 
Mrs.  Valetta  told  me  to-night  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  She  has  known  him  for  years  in 
Kimberley  and  at  the  Cape.  It  appears  that 

zo 


146  The  Claw 

when  he  was  twenty-five  (a  good  many  years  ago 
I  should  say)  he  married  a  very  lovely  girl  be- 
longing to  an  old  Cape  family — she  and  Mrs. 
Valetta  were  at  school  together.  He  was  wildly 
in  love  with  his  wife,  but  she  like  most  Cape 
girls  was  a  desperate  flirt,  and  no  sooner 
were  they  married  than  she  began  indulging  in 
perhaps  harmless  flirtations,  but  extremely  indis- 
creet ones,  considering  whom  she  had  married. 
They  began  to  be  unhappy,  and  then  suddenly 
came  an  awful  climax  when  he  almost  killed  some 
soldier  man  in  Cape  Town  (the  man's  recovery 
was  a  miracle)  and  then  separated  from  his  wife, 
but  first  of  all  he  sent  her  to  England,  and  in- 
sisted on  her  staying  there.  He  gave  her  a  large 
income  but  he  has  never  lived  with  her  since,  and 
she  has  never  been  out  here,  though  every  one 
knows  she  is  still  alive.  The  worst  feature  of 
the  business  is  the  way  he  has  always  carried 
on  intrigues  with  women  ever  since,  nearly  always 
married  women.  His  method  is  peculiar.  He 
commences  a  friendship  with  a  woman,  becomes 
her  devoted  slave,  and  gets  her  well  talked  about, 
and  when  she  is  wildly  in  love  with  him  and  ready 
to  throw  her  bonnet  over  the  windmill  he  calmly 
backs  out,  tells  the  woman  it  was  her  friendship 
he  wanted,  not  her  love,  and  walks  off.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  horrible?  Evidently 
the  idea  is  to  get  revenge  on  all  women  for  his 
own  wife's  infidelities,  but  it  seems  incredibly 
brutal,  does  n't  it  ?  " 


Love  Calls  147 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  I  said,  suffo- 
cating with  pain  and  anger  and  distress.  "He 
is  incapable  of  such — "  I  sank  among  my  pillows 
again  but  I  could  not  shut  out  Judy's  cruel  words. 

"I  know — I  felt  like  that  too — he  is  so  charm- 
ing, and  has  such  nice  eyes.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
he  could  be  such  a  brute — but  you  would  have 
had  to  believe  Marion  Valetta  to-night.  It  is 
clear  that  she  is  one  of  his  victims.  Of  course 
her  husband  is  a  dreadful  cad  and  they  say  kicks 
her,  and  that  no  doubt  makes  her  the  bitter  and 
wretched  woman  she  is,  but  every  one  knows 
she  is  desperate  about  Kinsella.  She  as  good  as 
admitted  it  to-night  though  she  knows  how  I 
detest  that  kind  of  thing  and  that  she  would  get 
no  sympathy — but  she  told  me,  looking  as  white 
as  a  ghost,  that  I  ought  to  warn  you  as  she  had 
warned  Anna  Cleeve  some  months  ago,  that  he  is 
married.  It  was  really  too  bad  of  him  to  start  a 
flirtation  with  Anna  Cleeve.  They  were  always 
riding  together  and  so  on  and  every  one  thought  it 
would  come  to  an  engagement,  and  then  suddenly 
the  whole  thing  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  now  they 
never  speak  to  each  other.  The  only  people  who 
knew  the  real  reason  were  he  and  Anna  Cleeve, 
but  now  it  appears  that  Mrs.  Valetta  told  Anna 
that  he  was  a  married  man  and  that  she  should 
tax  him  with  it,  and  Anna  did.  She  asked  him 
point  blank  and  instead  of  answering  he  laughed 
in  her  face  and  said,  'It  is  women  like  you  and 
Mrs.  Valetta  who  kick  a  man's  soul  into  hell.' 


148  The  Claw 

Then  he  walked  off  and  has  never  spoken  to  her 
since.  One  would  think  that  her  brother  would 
have  risen  in  arms  against  such  treatment,  but 
no!  The  curious  thing  is  that  men  are  always 
ready  to  believe  in  Tony  Kinsella.  Anna  Cleeve 
is  practically  engaged  to  Herbert  Stanfield  now, 
a  Salisbury  man,  but  she  is  frightfully  unhappy, 
and  every  one  says  it  was  nothing  but  pique  made 
her  do  it.  Mr.  Stanfield  is  very  nice  but  Tony 
Kinsella  would  spoil  any  woman's  taste  for  a 
merely  nice  man — he  is  so  alive  and  vivid  and 
extraordinarily  bigger  than  most  men  about — 
don't  you  think  so?  Anyway,  I  thought  I  'd 
just  warn  you,  dear.  As  I  told  Mrs.  Valetta, 
I  was  sure  there  was  not  the  slightest  necessity — 
that  you  Ve  had  heaps  of  good  offers  and  threw 
over  one  of  the  best  matches  in  England  because 
you  were  so  hard  to  please  (too  hard,  I  think,  but 
that  's  neither  here  nor  there).  Anyway,  I  let 
her  know  that  it  was  very  unlikely  you  would 
consider  any  man  out  here  good  enough  for  you. 
All  the  same,  I  know  how  fascinating  Anthony 
Kinsella  is  and  it  is  just  as  well  that  you  should 
know  these  things — so  there  you  are.  And  now 
good-night.  I  'm  so  dead  tired,  are  n't  you? 
What  a  crazy  night!" 

A  crazy  night  indeed!  I  don't  know  how  I 
lived  through  what  was  left  of  it.  My  body  lay 
still  and  anguished,  but  my  mind  wandered  in  a 
wilderness  of  wretchedness  and  misery  where  it 
sometimes  seemed  no  gleam  of  hope  or  happiness 


Love  Calls  149 

could  ever  penetrate  again.  I  had  said  that  I 
believed  no  word  of  it  all,  but  left  alone  with 
Judy's  haunting  tale  ringing  in  my  head,  how 
was  it  possible  to  dismiss  the  whole  thing  as  a 
tissue  of  lies  from  beginning  to  end?  Facts, 
such  as  his  marriage,  must  be  true.  No  woman 
would  invent  a  thing  that  could  be  so  easily 
disproved.  He  must  have  been  married  at  some 
time  (oh,  God!  that  thought  was  hard  to  bear 
even  if  she  had  died  since).  If  she  hadn't  died 
— ah!  that  was  too  terrible  to  think  of.  Then 
what  of  Anna  Cleeve?  and  Mrs.  Valetta?  Blind 
as  I  wished  to  be  I  knew  there  was  some  truth 
in  both  these  tales.  Deaf  as  I  had  tried  to  be, 
had  I  not  heard  everywhere  round  me  hints  of 
his  intimacies  with  women?  Had  he  not  said 
to  me  with  exceeding  bitterness:  "You  will  hear 
my  name  blown  back  upon  the  breeze  of  fame — 
of  a  kind"?  And  then:  "You  cannot  love  me 
without  sorrow,  Deirdre." 

Oh!  was  it  all  true?  Could  it  be  true?  Dark- 
ness engulfed  me.  I  know  not  how  I  passed  the 
terrible  year-long  hours.  But  at  last  my  little 
silver  travelling-clock  struck  five  and  I  found  my- 
self staring  at  the  first  red  stripes  of  dawn  upon 
the  walls.  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

WAR  CALLS 

"Off  thro'  the  dark  with  the  stars  to  rely  on, 
(Alpha,  Centauri,  and  something  Orion)." 

WHEN  we  met  at  the  breakfast  table  the 
bloom  of  the  dawn  was  on  none  of  us. 
Mrs.  Valetta  was  pale  and  haggard  as  a  murderess. 
Judy,  cross  and  dishevelled,  had  a  black  smudge 
on  her  nose  and  was  utterly  out  of  tune  with  life 
because  the  boys  had  all  mysteriously  disappeared 
during  the  night,  and  she  had  been  obliged 
to  get  the  breakfast  herself.  I  was  not  left 
long  in  ignorance  of  my  own  worn  and  unlovely 
appearance. 

"You  look  like  a  ghost,  Deirdre, "  said  my 
sister-in-law.  "No  more  midnight  revels  for 
you!  Really,  dear,  you  are  dreadfully  white  and 
your  lips  have  quite  a  blue  tint.  What  on  earth 
is  the  matter?" 

"I  should  think  Miss  Saurin's  heart  must  be 
seriously  affected,"  said  Mrs.  Valetta  dryly,  but 
though  she  smiled  her  eyes  gave  me  a  look  like 
a  flash  of  lightning — so  blue  and  angry  and  burning 

150 


War  Calls  151 

it  was.  I  knew  at  last  why  she  hated  me.  Judy 
glanced  at  me  again  with  a  shade  of  anxiety. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not.  Do  you  think  you  ought  to 
see  a  doctor,  Deirdre?  Dr.  Abingdon  here  is 
quite  clever  they  say,  though  he  does  look  such 
an  old  roue.  But  Jand,  in  Salisbury,  is  the  best 
man.  Even  Dr.  Jim  goes  to  him  when  he  is  ill." 

"I  am  quite  well,  Judy."  I  got  up  from  the 
table  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  I  felt  as  if 
I  could  die  of  weariness  and  the  sick  blankness 
of  life.  Across  the  square  near  Anthony  Kin- 
sella's  hut  a  group  of  men  stood  talking  ani- 
matedly. I  turned  away  with  my  hand  to  my 
head.  I  wished  I  might  never  see  any  more  men 
for  a  thousand  years — and  yet—  — ! 

"I  am  quite  well,  Judy,  but  my  head  aches. 
I  think  I  will  go  for  a  long  walk.  Perhaps  that 
will  do  me  good." 

"Well,  I  can't  offer  to  come  with  you,  my  dear. 
Apparently  I  am  to  have  the  pleasure  of  doing 
my  own  housework  to-day — but  I  shall  go  out 
first  and  see  if  Colonel  Blow  can't  spare  me  one 
of  the  Government  boys.  It  is  ridiculous  to  be 
left  like  this." 

Mrs.  Valetta  was  still  standing  in  the  dining- 
room  with  that  dry  smile  on  her  lips  when  I 
passed  through  with  my  hat  on,  but  she  did  noo 
offer  to  accompany  me. 

I  walked  and  walked  and  walked — over  the 
stubbly  bleached  grass,  through  the  township, 
past  the  outermost  huts,  across  the  rutted  dusty 


152  The  Claw 

main  road  to  the  river  that  wound  itself  half- 
way round  the  town.  When  the  freshness  of  the 
morning  was  long  past,  and  the  fierce  heat  of 
midday  was  beating  down  on  me  from  above,  and 
surging  up  through  the  soles  of  my  shoes  from  the 
earth,  I  found  at  last  a  place  of  shelter  on  the 
sweeping  sunlit  plain.  Between  two  upright  boul- 
ders almost  on  the  river  bank  there  was  a  little 
cleft  of  shadow  lined  with  moss  and  small,  harsh- 
leaved  fern,  and  there  I  flung  myself  down  and 
unburdened  my  heart  of  its  weight  of  tears.  I 
wept  until  I  had  no  more  tears,  until  it  seemed 
that  last  night's  moonlit  madness  must  be  washed 
away,  all  Anthony  Kinsella's  scorching  kisses 
from  my  lips,  all  his  treachery  from  my  memory. 
Only  the  young  know  the  exquisite  tragedy  and 
solace  of  tears :  of  broken  sobs  that  come  shudder- 
ing up  from  the  soul  to  the  lips;  that  are  of  the 
body  and  yet  most  terribly  of  the  spirit ;  that  rack 
and  choke  and  blur  out  the  beauty  of  life;  that 
afterwards  bring  a  brief  but  exquisite  peace. 

Yes,  afterwards  a  certain  peace  stole  over  my 
wretched  spirit;  I  could  watch  in  an  impersonal 
way  a  tiny  purple  lizard  which  lay  flat  upon  a 
near  stone  searching  me  with  beady,  curious  eyes ; 
and  I  could  feel  my  unprotected  feet  and  ankles 
which  had  not  found  the  shade  aching  and  burning 
in  the  sun's  heat. 

But  I  knew  it  to  be  only  the  peace  of  utter 
weariness — the  peace  of  a  twilight  hour  after 
the  first  black,  bitter  rain  of  a  stormy  season  that 


War  Calls  153 

must  be  faced.  The  struggle,  the  pain,  the  strain 
would  reassert  themselves  later.  Still,  I  was 
glad  of  the  respite.  It  gave  me  time  to  think, 
at  least;  to  consider  desperately  what  I  should 
do,  how  I  should  bear  myself,  how  I  could  best 
hide  my  pain  from  the  world. 

It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I  was  very  friendless 
and  alone  in  that  wide  sun-scorched  land  of  pale 
grasses  and  turquoise  skies — far  from  my  dead 
mother  and  my  brother  and  the  friends  of  my 
life.  Fate  had  dumped  me  on  the  African 
veldt  and  suffering  had  overtaken  me.  All  the 
things  I  had  known  and  loved — pictures,  books, 
marbles,  dim  churches,  and  magnificent  music — 
seemed  useless  to  help  or  comfort  me.  These 
things  do  not  matter  to  Africa;  and  when  one 
is  dumped  on  a  burning  African  plain  they  do 
not  seem  to  matter  to  life. 

After  long,  painful  thought  I  fell  to  trying  to 
form  some  decision,  some  wretched  plan  by  which 
to  spare  myself  more  wretchedness.  First,  I 
knew  that  I  must  see  Anthony  Kinsella  at  once. 
I  must  find  out  how  deep  the  wound  was  he  had 
dealt  me  before  I  could  burn  it  out.  I  must  meet 
him  calmly,  and  calmly  demand  the  truth  from 
him.  If  these  things  I  had  heard  were  false  then 
he  must  instantly  proclaim  the  truth  to  every  one, 
for  I  would  not  bear  for  myself  or  for  him  the 
sneers  and  suspicions  of  the  world. 

If  they  were  true,  these  things — true  that  he 
was  married,  true  that  he  had  been  the  lover  of 


154  The  Claw 

married  women,  that  he  had  mocked  me  with 
false  words — if  it  were  true — ah!  God,  if  it  were 
true!  I  searched  my  heart  for  scorn  and  con- 
tempt to  pour  upon  Anthony  Kinsella  from  my 
eyes  and  at  least  from  the  expression  of  my  lips, 
if  it  were  true — and  I  icould  find  none!  I  could 
not  find  scorn  and  hatred  anywhere  in  me  for  the 
man  to  whom  I  had  given  my  heart  and  soul  a 
few  hours  before.  I  could  not  remember  any- 
thing that  I  had  ever  seen  him  do  or  heard  him 
say  that  merited  my  scorn.  I  had  nothing  against 
him  but  women's  scandalous  tales.  And  surely, 
I  thought,  a  man  who  was  bad  to  the  core  as 
they  said  he  was  must  have  betrayed  himself  to 
me  by  some  look  or  deed.  But  never,  never!  I 
could  remember  nothing  but  kind  words,  wise 
words,  just  words,  quiet,  deliberate,  courageous 
actions  (even  his  punishment  of  the  driver  I 
knew  to  be  just),  fearless  smiles,  straight,  intent 
glances.  And  then,  his  burning,  passionate  words 
on  my  lips.  Surely  no  lover's  words  were  ever 
more  knightly  than  his.  Swearing  with  our  love 
to  cleanse  his  heart  of  old  sins — vowing  by  old 

creeds  and  lost  dreams ! 

Remembering  these  things,  living  them  over 
and  over  again,  I  knew  at  last  that  I  could  never 
scorn  Anthony  Kinsella.  It  was  not  only  that 
I  loved  as  a  lover.  There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes 
that  pulled  at  the  mother-spirit  in  me  and  made 
my  spirit  croon  a  song  over  him  and  forgive  him 
for  the  sake  of  his  boyhood  all  the  sins  he  had 


War  Calls  155 

ever  committed.  There  was  a  look  about  his 
mouth  that  made  my  spirit  kneel  to  him.  There 
was  a  note  in  his  voice  that  when  I  remembered 
it  saying  "Deirdre,  I  love  you!"  drove  spirit  out 
altogether  and  left  me  only  a  flaming,  glowing 
woman  in  the  arms  of  the  man  I  loved.  I  could 
never  scorn  him.  But  I  could  still  doubt,  and 
doubting,  scorn  myself.  That  was  a  new  form 
of  torture  that  assailed  me;  scorning  myself  for 
his  easy  triumph  over  my  heart  and  lips.  Then 
I  could  have  torn  the  heart  out  of  my  breast 
and  flung  it  into  the  river  close  by — it  hurt  so; 
then  I  could  have  crushed  beneath  the  boulders 
that  towered  over  me  the  hands  that  had  flown 
so  readily  to  his  clasp — I  hated  them  so;  then  I 
could  have  laid  my  proud  head  in  the  dust  for 
the  feet  of  women  to  trample  over. 

Ah!  I  suffered  through  the  terrible  hours  of 
that  long  day,  lying  there  in  the  sunshine,  my 
face  to  the  hard  brown  bosom  of  the  old  witch 
who  had  already  clawed  and  torn  my  heart. 
Over  and  over  the  dreary  round  of  words  and 
facts  and  doubts  and  fears  my  mind  travelled, 
until  it  was  sick  and  numbed  and  knew  only  one 
thing  clearly,  that  I  must  see  Anthony  Kinsella. 
I  had  a  wound  that  would  kill  me  if  it  were  not 
treated  at  once.  It  could  not  be  covered  over 
with  the  thin  skin  of  indifference;  there  was 
poison  in  it ;  it  must  be  seared  out  with  a  red-hot 
iron.  Afterwards,  perhaps  it  would  heal. 

Slowly  and  vaguely  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the 


156  The  Claw 

town.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  sun 
was  sinking,  but  the  heat  still  came  up  over- 
whelmingly from  under  foot,  and  I  felt  faint  for 
want  of  food.  I  had  gone  farther  than  I  knew 
into  the  veldt,  and  I  was  almost  fainting  with 
exhaustion  when  at  last  I  reached  the  first  huts 
of  the  township.  The  sun  had  gone  then,  leav- 
ing the  skies  primrose  coloured — a  pale,  lovely 
light,  that  yet  had  something  ominous  and  sinister 
in  it. 

To  my  vague  astonishment  I  found  the  place 
humming  like  a  beehive  and  alive  with  moving 
figures.  Horses  were  being  walked  up  and  down 
the  streets,  saddled  and  loaded  with  rolls  of 
blankets  and  provisions.  Waggons  stood  before 
the  doors  of  shops  and  hotels  being  loaded  with 
boxes  and  cases  of  things.  Men  were  rushing 
in  and  out  of  their  huts,  cleaning  straps,  shouting 
to  each  other  and  behaving  in  an  odd  way.  They 
seemed  to  be  doing  everything  for  themselves. 
There  was  not  a  black  boy  to  be  seen.  I  never 
thought  little  Fort  George  could  wear  such  an 
air  of  business,  either.  What  could  have  hap- 
pened? Even  in  my  misery  of  mind  I  found 
room  for  curiosity  at  these  things.  Several  men 
we  had  entertained  the  night  before  passed  me, 
but  they  barely  noticed  me — merely  lifted  their 
hats  and  passed  hastily  on.  I  did  not  feel  an- 
noyed, but  I  knew  there  must  be  something  very 
important  in  the  wind  to  make  them  behave  so 
indifferently,  and,  with  such  strength  as  I  had 


War  Calls  157 

left,  I  quickened  my  steps  and  arrived  home  in  a 
few  minutes. 

Mrs.  Valetta  met  me  at  the  door.  Her  face 
was  composed  and  cold  as  a  stone,  but  very  white. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  fearfully.  "What  is 
the  matter?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  said,  and  smiled  with  a 
ghostly,  bitter  smile.  "Only  the  war  at  last! 
The  final  batch  of  horses  have  arrived  and  the 
men  are  off  to  Matabeleland. " 

I  stood  speechless.  A  vision  of  Anthony 
Kinsella's  face  flashed  across  my  mind.  Now  I 
knew  why  Mrs.  Valetta  looked  like  that.  I 
turned  away  from  her,  but  she  followed  me  into 
the  house. 

"Where  is  Judy?" 

I  could  scarcely  believe  my  ears  at  her  answer : 

"She  left  for  Salisbury  this  morning  with  Mrs. 
Brand.  As  soon  as  you  had  gone  she  went  out 
to  look  for  house-boys,  and  met  Mrs.  Brand,  who 
was  rushing  to  tell  us  the  news  and  that  she  had 
determined  to  make  a  dash  for  Salisbury  in  her 
Cape  cart  before  any  one  commandeered  her 
horses.  Mrs.  Saurin  being  in  a  great  state  of 
mind  about  her  husband  of  course  begged  to  go 
with  her,  and  they  set  off  just  after  eleven  while 
all  the  men  were  at  the  Court  House  attending  a 
defence  meeting  called  by  Colonel  Blow.  It  is 
rather  daring  of  them  to  go  off  like  that,  but 
Constance  Brand  is  a  dauntless  creature  and 
they'll  be  all  right." 


158  The  Claw 

"But  have  they  gone  alone?" 

"They  have  Jim  with  them — one  of  George 
Brand's  Cape  boys — quite  trustworthy.  All  the 
Mashona  boys  ran  away  during  the  night ;  there  's 
not  one  left  in  the  town.  It  is  supposed  that  they 
got  messages  from  their  chiefs  to  return  to  their 
kraals.  But  it  is  not  they  who  have  risen,  you 
know.  They  are  poor  friendly  things  without 
any  fight  in  them.  It  is  the  Matabele  whom  we 
have  to  fear — cruel,  ferocious  brutes " 

"Did  Judy  leave  no  message  for  me?"  I 
quite  understood  that  Judy  should  want  to  get 
back  to  Dick,  but  it  seemed  to  me  a  cold-blooded 
thing  to  leave  me  to  my  fate  like  this,  and  in  the 
hands  of  Mrs.  Valetta! 

"Oh,  yes!  She  left  a  number  of  messages  for 
you  which  I  can't  remember.  However,  the  gist 
of  them  all  is  that  you  must  abide  under  my 
wing  until  you  can  rejoin  her — I  am  to  be  your 
chaperon,"  she  finished,  with  her  dry-lipped 
smile. 

"I  should  think  she  and  Mrs.  Brand  are 
more  in  need  of  one  than  I."  My  tone  was 
glacial. 

"  Oh !  they  '11  be  all  right.  The  danger  does  n't 
lie  in  their  direction  but  over  to  the  north.  Then 
there  are  a  lot  of  Salisbury  men  leaving  here  to- 
night to  join  the  Salisbury  Column  for  the  front, 
and  Colonel  Blow  anticipates  that  they  will  pick 
up  Mrs.  Brand's  cart  very  soon  and  see  them  safely 
in.  The  Fort  George  men  leave  here  to-morrow 


War  Calls  159 

to  join  the  Salisbury  and  Victoria  Columns  at 
the  Iron  Mine  Hill." 

"All  of  them?"  I  asked  dully.  As  a  matter 
of  course  I  knew  that  Anthony  would  be  the  first 
to  go. 

"All  but  the  lame  and  the  halt  and  the  blind, 
who  will  stay  behind  to  protect  us,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  and  Anna  Cleeve 
now  arrived.  The  latter's  striped  grey  eyes  were 
blurred  with  tears,  and  her  lips  were  pale,  but  the 
soft  pink  bloom  on  her  cheeks  was  stationary. 

"Isn't  it  terrible!"  she  cried.  "Anthony 
Kinsella  's  just  ridden  off  with  ten  men. " 

Mrs.  Valetta  stood  up  abruptly. 

"Where  to?" 

' '  To  Linkwater.  It  appears  there  are  three  men 
and  some  Dutch  women  there  who  were  warned 
long  ago  to  come  in,  but  would  not." 

"But  Linkwater  is  about  seventy  miles  away." 

"I  know,"  wailed  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe. 
"They  will  be  gone  four  or  five  days,  if  they 
ever  get  back  at  all.  It  is  in  the  direction  of 
Buluwayo,  you  know,  right  in  the  danger  zone. 
Is  n't  it  awful?  They  may  easily  get  cut  off  and 
killed — just  for  the  sake  of  two  or  three  dirty 
Dutch  people.  To  take  off  our  best  men  like 
that!  Tony  Kinsella  called  for  volunteers,  and 
Gerry  Deshon  has  gone,  and  young  Dennison, 
Mr.  Hunloke,  Mr.  Stair,  and  all  the  nicest  men 
— utterly  ridiculous,  I  call  it,  and  so  unkind. 
Don't  we  need  defending,  I  'd  like  to  know?" 


160  The  Claw 

"Oh,  we  '11  be  all  right  and  so  will  they,"  said 
Anna  Cleeve,  in  an  indifferent  sort  of  way,  but 
her  eyes  had  a  strained  look.  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe,  who  had  seated  herself  on  the  sofa,  care- 
fully took  from  the  front  of  her  gown  a  little 
lace-edged  handkerchief  and  a  tiny  hand-glass, 
and  holding  it  up  in  front  of  her  began  to 
push  back  the  tears  into  her  eyes  as  fast  as 
they  came  out.  I  never  saw  such  an  odd  pro- 
ceeding before,  and  I  watched  it  with  the  greatest 
fascination.  A  big  tear  would  gather  and  form 
on  the  lower  eye-lashes,  but  before  it  had 
time  to  get  through  she  would  receive  half  of 
it  on  her  handkerchief  and  push  the  rest  of 
it  back  into  her  eyes,  going  from  one  eye  to 
the  other  with  the  greatest  speed.  She  never 
allowed  any  to  escape  and  stain  her  cheeks — 
perhaps  because  there  was  a  great  deal  of  what 
looked  like  shoe- black  mingled  with  her  tears. 
All  the  time  she  was  whimpering  in  a  dismal 
voice  : 

"My  poor  Monty!  I  wired  to  him  this  morn- 
ing that  he  is  not  to  go  to  the  front — he  is  not 
strong  enough — but  they  said  the  wire  was  so 
busy  my  wire  could  n't  go  through  to-day,  and 
I  know  he  '11  go — he  's  so  brave — he  's  sure  to  do 
something  frightfully  distinguished  and  daring 
and  get  killed  doing  it.  What  will  be  the  use  of 
the  Victoria  Cross  to  me,  I  'd  like  to  know,  if  I 
lose  him?" 

"Now,  Porkie, "  said  Anna  Cleeve,  "I  shall  have 


War  Calls  161 

to  spank  you  if  you  don't  stop  that.  Monty 
won't  come  to  any  harm — he  's  just  as  well  able 
to  look  after  himself  as  any  other  selfish  brute 
of  a  man.  You  are  nothing  but  a  little  fretful 
porcupine.  Don't  cry  any  more  now,  else  I 
shan't  love  you.  Come  back  to  the  tent  and  lie 
down.  What 's  the  matter  with  you  is  that  you 
want  rest." 

When  they  had  gone  Mrs.  Valetta  said  im- 
patiently to  me: 

"Monty  Skeffington-Smythe  is  a  little  drunken 
wretch,  and  the  very  best  thing  he  could  do  would 
be  to  get  killed  decently.  It  would  be  the  first 
fine  act  he  ever  performed  and  Nina  Skeffington- 
Smythe  knows  it." 

"Then  surely  she  has  reason  enough  to  weep," 
said  I,  and  to  myself  could  only  drearily  repeat 
the  words,  "They  will  be  gone  four  or  five  days, 
if  they  ever  get  back  at  all." 


The  hour  for  the  march  into  Matabeleland 
had  struck.  For  months  the  British  South 
Africa  Company  had,  with  the  sanction  of  the 
English  Government,  been  preparing  to  take  the 
field  against  Lobengula,  but  the  preparations 
had  moved  slowly  for  the  waggons  and  horses 
needed  for  such  an  expedition  had  to  be  brought 
hundreds  of  miles,  arms  and  stores  had  to  be 
provided,  and  men  who  were  not  soldiers  by 
profession  got  into  fighting  shape  by  those  who 


1 62  The  Claw 

were.  I  made  the  startling  discovery  that  every 
man  in  Fort  George  had  for  months  been  rising 
in  the  cool  hours  of  dawn  to  engage  in  drill, 
gun-practice,  shooting,  and  manoeuvring  with 
ox-waggons,  the  last  quite  an  important  feature 
of  warfare  with  natives,  the  waggons  being  used 
to  form  forts  or  laagers  in  which  to  take  shelter 
from  native  attacks  and  from  which  to  attack 
in  turn. 

A  convoy  of  waggons  on  the  march  can  in  two 
or  three  minutes  be  transformed  into  an  almost 
impregnable  laager.  When  the  waggons  are  out- 
spanned  it  takes  not  more  than  ten  to  fifteen 
minutes  to  form  a  laager,  bush  it,  and  get  all  the 
horses  inside. 

So  the  men  I  had  despised  for  idlers  and  loi- 
terers were  not  so  idle  after  all,  it  seemed!  It  is 
true  that  they  had  amused  themselves  in  the 
afternoons  and  evenings,  but  they  had  been  hard 
at  it  for  many  hours  in  the  morning  while  I  was 
still  sleeping.  Most  of  them,  in  fact,  were  not 
Fort  George  men  at  all,  but  came  from  camps 
and  farms  in  the  outlying  districts,  because  on 
account  of  the  offensive  attitude  of  the  Matabele 
it  was  no  longer  safe  to  be  there.  They  had  left 
all  their  regular  occupations  to  come  into  town  to 
get  ready  for  war.  Every  one  who  was  not  a 
trooper  commanded  a  troop.  Every  one  had  a 
part  and  place  in  the  Government  plan  for  in- 
vading Matabeleland,  putting  an  end  to  an  im- 
possible situation,  and  making  the  country  a  safe 


War  Calls  163 

and  clean  one  for  a  white  race.  Having  newly 
come  to  Mashonaland  I  did  not  know  of  all  these 
internal  workings  and  doings.  Therefore  I  was 
more  surprised  than  any  one  else  to  see  the  splen- 
didly mounted  and  equipped  body  of  men  who 
were  ready  to  start  for  Matabeleland  the  day  after 
the  orders  to  march  came  down. 

Though  it  was  as  early  as  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  every  one  in  the  town  was  up  to  see  the 
men  leave,  and  I,  too,  at  the  sound  of  the  bugle, 
had  risen  from  my  sleepless  bed,  dressed  hastily, 
and  joined  the  crowd  round  the  post-office. 
In  the  crush  I  found  myself  standing  next  to  a 
woman  in  a  grey  skirt  and  pink  cotton  blouse, 
and  recognised  her  as  that  Mrs.  Marriott  of  whom 
the  astounding  story  of  unarrived  boxes  had  been 
told*  After  a  little  while  I  spoke  to  her  about 
the  men,  making  one  or  two  ordinary  remarks,— 
what  fine  fellows  they  were,  and  how  happy 
they  seemed  to  be  off, — but  she  had  a  desperate 
look  and  answered  me  in  a  dull  way,  like  a  woman 
who  only  heard  dimly  what  was  being  said  to  her. 
It  occurred  to  me  then  that  her  husband  was  one 
of  those  about  to  ride  away. 

Most  of  the  men  who  composed  the  Column  had 
their  wives  and  families  in  the  place  and  business 
to  attend  to;  in  fact  a  great  many  of  them  were 
leaving  behind  everything  they  possessed  in  the 
world.  Yet  I  never  saw  a  merrier,  jollier  crowd, 
and  the  wives  looked  equally  dauntless.  Some 
of  them  had  white  lips  but  they  smiled  with  them, 


1 64  The  Claw 

and  the  children  were  prancing  about  everywhere, 
hooting  with  excitement.  The  only  downcast  faces 
to  be  seen  were  those  of  the  men  who  were  being 
left  behind,  our  defenders,  of  whom  Mrs.  Valetta 
had  spoken  so  mockingly.  I  cast  my  eye  round 
upon  them.  It  was  not  true  that  they  were  the 
maimed  and  the  halt  and  the  blind,  but  certainly 
they  were  not  the  most  attractive-looking  men 
I  had  ever  seen.  Most  of  them  wore  unshaven 
faces  and  no  coats,  while  their  nether  garments 
were  what  is  known  as  hitched  around  them  on 
a  leather  strap — some  of  them  frankly  repeating 
the  process  of  hitching  while  they  stood  scowling 
enviously  upon  the  lucky  men  who  had  horses 
and  had  been  pronounced  fit. 

Colonel  Blow  had  neither  forgotten  to  shave 
nor  to  put  on  his  collar,  but  the  orders  that 
had  come  down  to  him  to  stay  at  his  post  and 
look  after  the  town  of  Fort  George  had  changed 
him  from  a  charming,  nice  man  into  a  bear  of 
the  most  unsociable  kind.  He  looked  capable 
of  falling  with  fang  and  claw  upon  any  one  who 
ventured  to  speak  to  him.  Among  the  rest  of 
our  defenders  were  the  bearded  pard,  the  par- 
son, the  postmaster  whose  genial  face  was  also 
trimmed  with  scowls,  and  the  doctor,  whose 
gout  prevented  him  from  being  a  warrior  but 
who  frankly  informed  every  one  who  was  inter- 
ested enough  to  listen  that  nothing  would  have 
induced  him  to  go,  gout  or  no  gout.  He  was  not 
looking  for  any  Lobengulas,  he  said.  He  had 


War  Calls  165 

not  lost  any  Matabele  impis,  so  why  should  he 
go  and  search  for  them? 

There  were  other  odds  and  ends  of  human 
relics  who  were  not  for  the  front.  I  noticed  one 
man,  a  tall  fellow  with  a  stoop  in  his  broad 
shoulders  and  a  ravaged  face  that  still  bore  traces 
of  rather  extraordinary  good  looks,  but  his  skin 
was  a  terrible  yellow  colour  and  his  eyes  were 
sunken  pits  in  his  face.  He  was  such  a  striking 
tragedy  that  I  could  not  refrain  from  putting 
a  question  about  him  to  the  woman  at  my 
side. 

"What  a  splendid  piece  of  wreckage!"  I  said 
in  a  low  voice.  "Why  didn't  some  one  save 
him  from  the  rocks,  I  wonder?  Who  is  he,  Mrs. 
Marriott?" 

In  her  dull  quiet  voice  she  answered  two  words : 

"My  husband." 

My  face  went  hot  with  shame  for  my  thought- 
less cruelty. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  I  stammered,  remembering 
the  tale  that  I  had  been  told  of  the  terrible  tragedy 
of  her  finding  after  marriage  that  her  husband  was 
a  slave  to  the  morphia  habit.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  say:  the  thing  was  so  unpardonable,  so 
irremediable.  But  her  face  showed  no  more  than 
its  usual  expression  of  dull  sadness. 

"  It  does  n't  matter, "  she  replied,  and  continued 
to  stare  blankly  before  her. 

At  that  moment  my  attention  was  wrenched 
away  from  her  by  the  sound  of  a  charming  and 


1 66  The  Claw 

musical  voice.  Some  one  was  speaking — a  rather 
short,  thickset  man,  sitting  heavily  on  his  horse. 
He  had  a  reddish  face,  large,  bright,  dark  eyes, 
and  an  abnormally  big  forehead;  and  under  his 
cocked-up-at-one-side  hat  he  held  his  head  bent 
forward  in  a  curiously  concentrated  way  as  he 
spoke  to  the  men,  who  all  turned  to  him,  listening 
like  men  in  a  trance.  He  had  not  spoken  two 
words  before  I  knew  the  American  name  for  this 
ordinary-looking  man  with  the  magnetic  presence 
and  the  charming  and  musical  woman's  voice. 
He  was  a  spell-binder. 

"Men,  I  have  to  thank  you,  from  Mr.  Rhodes, 
for  the  British  South  Africa  Company,  and  for 
the  British  Empire,  for  the  way  in  which  you 
and  the  men  all  over  Mashonaland  have  come 
forward  to  tackle  this  job.  It  is  going  to  be  a 
tough  job — and  not  at  all  pretty — but  we  will 
stick  to  it,  and  I  am  confident  of  our  ultimate 
success.  We  have  right  on  our  side.  'Thrice- 
armed  is  he  who  hath  his  quarrel  just '  you  know 
and  we  have  given  Lobengula  every  opportunity 
to  make  good  his  promise  to  the  Chartered 
Company,  but  over  and  over  again  he  has  be- 
trayed our  trust  and  broken  his  compact.  He 
has  crossed  our  boundaries,  cut  our  telegraph 
wires,  raided  the  chiefs  under  our  protection,  and 
lately,  as  you  are  aware,  not  content  with  wallow- 
ing in  blood  in  his  own  kraals,  he  has  been  here 
to  our  very  doors  murdering  the  wretched  natives 
who  as  our  servants  for  the  first  time  in  their 


War  Calls  167 

lives  knew  the  swe  t  taste  of  liberty  that  is 
the  right  of  every  man  that  breathes.  It  has 
come  to  this — that  our  women  and  children 
are  in  danger;  our  mining  and  agricultural 
interests,  dearly  bought  by  fever  and  privation, 
are  threatened;  none  of  us  can  ever  be  safe 
away  on  a  lonely  farm  or  mine;  we  have 
proved  the  treachery  of  Lobengula,  and  we  know 
that  his  people  mean  mischief.  Well,  it  has 
got  to  end!  We  must  either  once  and  for  all 
put  down  the  power  of  the  Matabele,  or  get 
out.  I  don't  think  we  mean  to  get  out.  This 
is  too  good  a  country  to  leave — and  we 
have  paid  too  dearly  for  our  share  in  it. 
It  is  too  fine  a  country  to  be  nothing  but  the 
shambles  of  a  bloody  butcher;  this  wide, 
lovely  land  calls  for  some  nobler  destiny 
than  to  be  the  necropolis  of  the  wretched 
Mashona  nation.  It  is  a  white  man's  country 
— a  fit  heritage  for  the  children  of  British  men 
and  women — your  children,  and  the  children 
of  the  women  who  have  not  disdained  to 
come  up  here  and  feel  the  rough  edge  of  life; 
who  do  not  grudge  their  men  to  the  service  of 
the  Empire;  who  are  here  this  morning  not  to 
weep,  but  to  cheer  you  forth  to  victory.  Good- 
bye, boys!  I  '11  meet  you  again  at  Buluwayo. 
In  the  name  of  Cecil  Rhodes  I  give  you  God- 
speed!" 

He  took  the  hat  from  his  fine  head  and  waved 
it  to  them  smiling,  then  swiftly  turned  his  horse's 


1 68  The  Claw 

head  and  rode  away  followed  by  his  staff,  amidst 
wild  bursts  of  cheering. 

A  moment  later,  the  children  had  broken  into 
wild  hurrahs,  whips  were  cracking,  and  waggons 
streaking  down  the  road  in  clouds  of  dust.  Every 
one  was  waving  hands  and  handkerchiefs  to  the 
men  who  rode  away  laughing  in  the  morning 
sunshine. 

"  We  cheered  them  forth, 
Brilliant  and  gallant  and  brave." 

When  all  was  over  I  saw  Mrs.  Marriott  walking 
listlessly  away  in  the  wake  of  her  husband,  who 
now  that  the  last  groups  were  breaking  up  had 
turned  and  was  going  towards  his  home.  Some 
one  near  me  remarked: 

"It  is  too  bad  about  poor  Marriott — he  almost 
begged  on  his  knees  to  go,  but  Fitzgerald  did  n't 
make  any  bones  about  telling  him  he  would  be  no 
good.  Of  course  it  was  quite  true,  but  it  doubled 
Marriott  up  like  a  knife  between  the  ribs.  I 
did  n't  think  he  could  feel  like  that  still.  Fitz 
might  have  been  a  little  tenderer  about  it. " 

The  doctor  slapped  the  speaker  on  the  shoulders. 

"My  boy,  there  is  nothing  tender  about  war. 
That  is  why  I  am  staying  at  home." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FAITH  CALLS 

"We  cannot  grieve  as  they  that  have  no  hope." 

A  CLOUD  of  dark  and  brooding  melancholy 
settled  upon  Fort  George  after  the  depart- 
ure of  the  troops.  The  streets  were  silent. 
Many  of  the  huts  had  their  doors  padlocked 
and  rough  plank  shutters  nailed  over  the  windows. 
Never  the  familiar  sound  of  a  native  voice  was 
heard,  nor  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the 
roads.  The  place  had  an  indescribable  air  of 
loneliness  and  desertion.  The  men  who  were 
left  behind  were  busy  all  day  helping  to  build 
sand-bag  barricades  in  front  of  the  post-office, 
which  was  to  be  turned  into  a  fort  for  our  safety 
in  case  the  town  should  be  attacked  later  on 
if  the  fighting  went  against  our  men.  All  the 
Mashona  boys  had  run  away  to  their  kraals, 
and  there  were  no  domestics  or  boys  for  public 
work,  so  the  convicts,  who  were  mostly  Cape 
natives,  were  let  out  under  a  strong  guard  of 
white  men  and  told  off  in  gangs  to  do  the  work 
of  digging  earth  to  fill  the  sand-bags. 

169 


170  The  Claw 

The  Fort  George  women  who  had  their  homes 
and  their  children  to  mind  were  busier  than  ever, 
having  no  servants;  but  the  wretched  Salisbury 
women,  of  whom  whether  I  liked  it  or  not  I  was 
obliged  to  consider  myself  part  and  parcel,  had 
nothing  whatsoever  to  do  from  morning  to  night. 
Fortunately  or  unfortunately  for  us,  Mrs.  Brand 
in  giving  Judy  a  seat  in  her  cart  had  been  obliged 
to  leave  her  Cape  maid  Adriana  behind,  and  she 
had  given  the  woman  instructions  to  divide  her 
services  amongst  us.  On  this  account  we  did 
not  feel  the  loss  of  servants  much,  but  perhaps 
it  might  have  been  better  if  we  had  had  something 
to  do,  even  housework,  for  a  more  wretched 
quartette  of  idle  people  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  find  anywhere.  Three  of  us  at  least  had  a 
secret  that  we  desperately  desired  to  hide  from 
the  others,  and  the  fourth — Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe — was  quite  the  most  maliciously  curious 
woman  ever  born. 

Adriana,  a  big  bustling  creature  well  able  to 
do  the  work  of  our  small  household,  came  and 
cooked  in  our  kitchen  and  served  the  meals  for 
all  four  of  us  in  our  little  hut,  and  so  there  we 
were,  everlastingly  together,  Mrs.  Valetta  and 
I  rarely  speaking  to  each  other,  and  Miss  Cleeve 
and  her  friend  always  on  the  verge  of  a  quarrel. 

The  latter  two  professed  a  great  and  eternal 
attachment  to  each  other,  but  Mrs.  Valetta 
disposed  of  their  friendship  thus: 

"Mrs.  Skeffy  and  Anna  Cleeve  make  me  tired. 


Faith  Calls  171 

They  simply  stick  together  because  they  know 
so  much  about  each  other  they  dare  n't  quarrel, 
but  a  quarrel  is  bound  to  come  one  of  these  days 
and  then  their  secrets  will  be  flying  about  all 
over  the  place  and  we  '11  have  something  to 
amuse  us.  Anna  Cleeve  is  far  too  clever  a  girl 
not  to  tire  of  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe,  who  is 
the  silliest  woman  I  have  ever  met.  She  thinks 
of  nothing  all  day  but  polishing  her  nails  and 
soaking  her  soul  in  Swinburne." 

It  usually  rained  heavily  all  the  mornings  and 
cleared  up  in  the  afternoons,  and  the  first  time 
we  went  round  to  the  tennis-court  in  desperation 
for  something  to  do  we  found  that  every  sign 
of  the  markings  had  been  washed  away.  No 
one  had  the  heart  to  paint  them  on  again  even 
if  the  brush  and  whitewash  could  have  been  dis- 
covered, so  we  left  it  as  we  found  it  with  the  wind 
sweeping  leaves  and  pieces  of  stick  and  paper 
across  it  and  turning  it  into  the  most  desolate 
spot  in  the  town.  We  went  home  again  and  sat 
sullenly  round  the  tea-table — four  idle,  wretched 
women!  And  I  believed  myself  to  be  the  most 
wretched  of  all.  I  don't  know  how  I  bore  the 
passing  of  the  days.  My  heart  was  "a  thing  of 
stone  in  a  valley  lone."  To  the  pain  of  the 
blow  Judy  had  dealt  me,  which  still  benumbed 
my  spirit,  was  added  the  strain  of  waiting  for 
Anthony  Kinsella's  return  from  Linkwater.  My 
tongue  did  me  the  service  of  saying  all  the  every- 
day necessary  things,  and  I  ate  and  took  part 


172  The  Claw 

in  life  like  the  rest  of  them,  but  I  could  not  sleep 
and  I  could  not  think,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
life  would  never  be  the  same  again. 

"I  could  never  again  be  friends  with  the  roses — 
I  should  hate  sweet  music." 

I  found  myself  listening  to  a  conversation  about 
Mrs.  Geach,  which  reminded  me  of  nothing 
so  much  as  an  attack  by  three  savage  Indian 
squaws  on  some  helpless  victim  fastened  to  the 
stake.  It  transpired  that  no  one  had  seen  her 
since  the  day  before  the  departure  of  the  Column, 
and  though  every  one  turned  their  eyes  away  from 
her  in  the  street,  or  looked  through  her  as  if 
she  were  a  spirit,  here  were  three  people  very 
much  annoyed  because  she  now  preferred  to 
stay  indoors  and  not  be  seen.  The  most 
charitable  thing  to  be  heard  was  a  remark  of 
Anna  Cleeve's: 

"Poor  wretch!  Life  can't  be  very  interesting 
for  her  now  George  Rookwood  has  gone." 

"What  can  she  expect?"  said  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  virtue.  "If 
a  woman  deliberately  runs  off  the  rails  she  must 
expect  a  smash-up." 

"The  smash-up  is  not  the  worst  part  of  it,  I 
imagine,"  remarked  Mrs.  Valetta.  "No  doubt 
there  is  plenty  of  compensating  excitement  about 
that.  It  is  in  the  cold  grey  years  that  come  after 
that  the  full  tale  of  misery  is  told.  However, 


Faith  Calls  173 

I    don't    think    she     has    reached    that     point 
yet." 

"No,  wait;  some  day  George  Rookwood  will 
meet  a  girl  and  fall  in  love." 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  spoke  in  a  pleasant 
gentle  tone  and  her  eyes  took  on  the  rapt  look  of 
one  contemplating  the  tenderest  kind  of  romance. 
Just  about  this  time  the  doctor  paid  his  daily 
visit,  and  one  of  his  items  of  news  concerned  Mrs. 
Rookwood.  The  men  were  charitable  enough 
not  to  grudge  her  the  name  of  the  man  for  whom 
she  had  staked  her  all  on  the  great  chess-board 
of  life. 

"As  no  one  had  seen  anything  of  her  since 
the  departure  of  Rookwood, "  said  Dr.  Abingdon, 
"and  the  house  showed  no  sign  of  being  occupied, 
Blow  thought  it  his  business  to  call  there  this 
morning,  and  when  he  could  n't  make  any  one 
hear  he  proceeded  to  break  in,  and — what  do 
you  think?" 

Every  one  had  put  on  a  frozen  face  at  the  first 
mention  of  Mrs.  Rookwood,  giving  the  doctor 
to  understand  that  they  considered  it  insufferable 
impertinence  on  his  part  to  speak  of  such  a 
person  in  their  presence  at  all ;  but  at  his  dramatic 
pause  curiosity  could  not  be  restrained. 

"Well?    What?"   said  Miss  Cleeve. 

"Has  she  committed  suicide?"  cried  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe. 

•  Mrs.  Valetta  had  the  decency  to  curl  her  lip 
at  them. 


174  The  Claw 

"Not  at  all,"  chuckled  the  doctor,  delighted 
with  his  effect.  "She  's  simply  not  there.  Every- 
thing was  found  in  tip-top  order,  and  a  note  on 
the  table  addressed  to  Blow  telling  him  not  to 
bother  or  make  any  search  as  she  was  perfectly 
all  right  but  had  made  up  her  mind  to  go  on  a 
journey.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"But  where  can  she  be  gone  to?" 

"That 's  the  question!  No  one  saw  her  go, 
but  it  now  turns  out  that  her  horse  was  not 
commandeered  because  Rookwood  reported  that 
it  had  a  sore  foot.  Well,  sore  foot  or  no  sore 
foot  it 's  gone,  and  she  's  gone  with  it." 

"Well,  she  's  both  clever  and  lucky  to  be  out 
of  this  desolate  hole,"  commented  Mrs.  Valetta. 

And  she  was  right.  For  us  the  days  grew 
greyer,  emptier,  and  more  forlorn.  Walks  outside 
the  town  were  forbidden  by  the  Commandant, 
who  was  Colonel  Blow  grown  unrecognisably 
cross  and  surly.  There  were  no  walks  inside 
the  town  except  from  house  to  house,  and  as  we 
had  never  been  on  calling  terms  with  the  Fort 
George  women  there  were  no  houses  for  us  to  go  to. 

Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  used  to  lie  on  the 
sofa  most  of  the  day,  either  polishing  her  already 
over-polished  nails  with  a  silver  polisher  or  reading 
Swinburne's  Poems  and  Ballads,  a  copy  of  which 
she  carried  about  with  her  eternally. 

Anna  Cleeve  would  sit  by  her  embroidering 
on  linen,  or  writing  up  her  journal,  which  she 
kept  faithfully,  saying  she  would  some  day  write 


Faith  Calls  175 

a  history  of  the  war.  It  should  have  made 
interesting  reading  if  her  pen  was  half  as  biting 
as  her  tongue. 

I  wrote  letters,  and  sometimes  sketched — any- 
thing to  appear  to  take  in  life  the  interest  I  had 
ceased  to  feel,  and  to  get  through  the  days  until 
the  patrol  came  back  from  Linkwater.  Mrs. 
Valetta  sat  always  in  Mrs.-Pat-Campbellish  atti- 
tudes, biting  her  lips  and  watching  the  world 
stand  still,  through  half -closed  eyes.  When  the 
others  were  not  there  I  was  sometimes  obliged 
to  listen  to  her  acrid  comments  on  them,  and  the 
world  in  general,  and  life  grew  a  little  greyer  and 
drearier  in  the  listening. 

I  learned  that  Anna  Cleeve  was  staying  on  a 
visit  with  some  rather  well-off  cousins  in  Salis- 
bury. Her  uncle  was  an  official  of  the  Company. 
She  had  come  out  to  Africa,  said  Mrs.  Valetta, 
with  the  pure  and  simple  purpose  all  women  have 
from  their  cradles  up.  She  purposed  to  marry— 
and  to  marry  well — some  one  with  money  enough 
to  take  her  back  to  the  country  she  loved. 

"A  London  girl!  You  know  what  that  means. 
They  never  see  any  beauty  away  from  Bond 
Street  or  outside  of  the  Royal  Academy.  How- 
ever, she  is  going  to  marry  Herbert  Stanfield, 
and  he  is  well  off  enough  to  take  her  back.  But 
she  had  better  hurry  up.  She  is  twenty-five 
now,  and  looks  thirty  when  things  go  wrong.  I 
dare  say  you  know  she  imagines  herself  in  love 
with  Anthony  Kinsella. " 


176  The  Claw 

Her  oddly-coloured  eyes  flashed  like  a  search- 
light over  me;  but  though  my  heart  came  into 
my  throat  in  a  suffocating  way,  I  had  my  mask 
on  and  I  think  she  could  read  nothing. 

"Do  you  think  it  quite  fair  to  discuss  other 
people's  private  and  rather  sacred  affairs,  Mrs. 
Valetta?" 

"Oh,  fair?  Perhaps  not,  but  it  will  always  be 
done  while  there  are  men  and  women  in  the  world, 
and  if  you  think  that  anything  can  be  kept  private 
and  sacred  in  this  country,  my  dear  girl,  you  are 
greatly  deluded.  Every  one  knows  and  has  dis- 
cussed the  matter  of  Anna  Cleeve's  infatuation 
for  Anthony  Kinsella.  Some  people  will  even 
supply  you  with  the  conversation  that  occurred 
when  she  taxed  him  with  being  already  married." 

I  felt  the  blood  leaving  my  face.  I  dared  not 
speak  for  fear  of  betraying  to  this  cruel  woman 
how  much  I  was  suffering. 

"Of  course  friendships  between  men  and  women 
are  everyday  affairs  in  this  country.  We  are 
nearly  all  married  and  bored  and  trying  to  find 
some  interest  in  life.  But  the  married  women 
don't  care  about  the  girls  annexing  their  privi- 
leges. And  then  there  are  some  men  with  whom 
friendship  is  forbidden ;  Anthony  Kinsella  is  one 
of  them.  However,  Anna  Cleeve's  friendship 
with  him  came  to  a  wise  end,  and  she  is  now 
engaged  to  her  rich  man.  But  I  have  n't  the 
slightest  doubt  as  to  where  her  heart  is." 

"How    can    you    say    such    things?"    I    said, 


Faith  Calls  177 

quivering  with  indignation.  "What  has  it  to  do 
with  you  or  me?  You  are  probably  doing  Miss 
Cleeve  a  great  injustice." 

She  answered  in  her  usual  dry  and  weary 
manner : 

"I  may  or  I  may  not  be.  But  I  think  it  would 
be  easier  to  fall  in  love  with  Tony  Kinsella  than 
out  of  it,  don't  you?" 

I  advanced  no  opinion.  I  had  learned  to 
expect  her  thrusts  and  to  receive  them  without 
testifying.  Nevertheless  they  added  to  my  pain 
which  was  already  more  than  I  could  bear. 


After  four  days  the  relief  column  returned 
from  Linkwater. 

A  watcher  stationed  in  the  tower  told  of  its 
approach  one  afternoon,  and  in  less  than  ten 
minutes  the  whole  community  was  out  too,  watch- 
ing and  waiting.  I  went  with  the  rest;  it  was 
impossible  to  do  otherwise  without  making 
myself  conspicuous,  but  I  tied  a  big  veil  round 
my  face  for  fear  my  mask  should  fail  me 
at  the  moment  I  saw  Anthony.  Mrs.  Valetta 
came  too  and  Anna  Cleeve,  pale  as  a  bone,  the 
former  with  her  teeth  dug  into  her  lip  in  a  way 
that  was  painful  to  watch.  Not  that  I  watched 
her.  One  look  was  enough  to  tell  me  not  to  look 
again,  and  I  was  occupied  with  my  own  misery. 

Anthony  Kinsella  riding  carelessly  with  his 
right  arm  turned  in  on  his  hip  was  all  I  saw.  A 


178  The  Claw 

dark  face  with  two  blue  points  in  it  under  a 
slouched  felt  hat:  eyes  that  with  one  swift  look 
dragged  my  glance  to  his  over  the  heads  of  every- 
body, long  before  he  rode  in  amongst  us  with  his 
little  band.  In  the  midst  of  them  was  an  untented 
cart  drawn  by  oxen  containing  several  women 
and  children  and  a  sick  man.  Every  one  crowded 
round  the  riders  shaking  hands,  questioning, 
welcoming.  The  Commandant  without  delay 
had  his  arm  round  Anthony  Kinsella's  shoulders 
and  drew  him  into  his  office,  closing  the  door. 
They  were  officials  and  had  to  attend  to  the 
business  of  the  country.  We  were  left  to  welcome 
the  poor  people  in  the  cart — two  sullen,  sunburnt, 
colonial  women,  very  Dutch  and  disagreeable, 
and  a  tribe  of  small  brats.  Huts  had  been  pre- 
pared for  them  and  the  doctor  had  the  sick  man 
carried  off  to  the  hospital. 

Gerry  Deshon  and  the  rest  of  them  hailed  us 
cheerfully  and  dismounting  proceeded  to  recount 
their  adventures,  which  it  transpired  had  not 
been  of  a  wildly  exciting  order.  They  had  seen 
nothing  of  the  enemy,  and  instead  of  being  pleased 
thereat  were  full  of  weariness  and  wrath. 

"Devil  an  impi!"  they  bitterly  announced. 
"Not  the  scrag  end  of  one.  All  we  got  for  our 
pains  was  the  pleasure  of  being  chewed  up  by 
flies  and  skeeters,  Dennison's  horse  gone  dead 
lame,  and  Stair  with  a  sprained  arm." 

"Yes,  and  those  blessed  Dutchmen  didn't 
want  to  be  rescued.  They  kicked  at  being  taken 


Faith  Calls  179 

away  from  their  farms.  Kinsella  had  his  work 
cut  out  making  them  quit.  The  women  cursed 
and  the  brats  howled.  Oh,  it  was  dreamful!" 

"The  most  awful  flat  frosty  business  you  ever 
saw!" 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  American,  who  had 
been  called  away  to  join  the  conclave  in  the  office 
and  now  reappeared.  "Never  mind,  my  dears. 
We  're  away  off  to  the  woods  to-night." 

"To-night!"  Disgust  and  fatigue  departed 
from  the  tea-coloured,  begrimed  visages. 

"To-night?" 

"Yea-bu,  verily,  verily,  this  very  night.  Kim 
has  said  it.  If  we  get  a  big  move  on  us  we  '11  be 
in  time  for  the  shine  at  Buluwayo  yet.  If  we 
can't  catch  up  with  the  other  column  maybe 
we  can  cut  across  country  and  do  a  little  stunt 
of  our  own.  Kim  knows  this  old  map  like  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  Excuse  me — I  must  go  and 
look  after  the  commissariat." 

"And  I  must  go  and  get  some  sleep  or  else 
I'llfreck." 

"Me  too." 

Every  one  began  to  disappear  in  a  great  hurry. 

"Aren't  we  going  to  get  a  word  with  Major 
Kinsella?"  said  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  to  the 
postmaster,  who  stood  sulking  in  the  verandah. 
"I  want  to  ask  him  to  look  after  my  husband 
and  see  that  he  is  not  too  reckless. " 

"He  has  a  forty-foot  pile  of  letters  and  tele- 
grams to  go  through  with  the  Commandant. 


i8o  The  Claw 

He  won't  get  much  sleep  before  they  start  to- 
night." 

Every  one  returned  home,  except  Dr.  Marriott, 
who  after  listening  to  all  that  had  been  said 
went  and  leaned  against  the  door  of  the  office 
which  enclosed  Anthony  and  Colonel  Blow.  I 
would  have  liked  to  go  and  lean  there  with 
him. 

It  was  the  custom  for  Anna  Cleeve  and  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  to  spend  the  early  part  of 
the  afternoon  resting  in  their  tent,  rejoining  us 
later  for  tea,  and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  was 
for  this  plan  now  for  the  heat  was  intense  and 
one  longed  for  shade  and  rest,  but  Miss  Cleeve 
turned  on  her  irritably. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  lying  down,  Nina, 
when  every  one  else  is  standing  up  doing  some- 
thing. Let  us  go  back  to  the  hut.  I  suppose 
you  '11  give  us  some  tea,  Nonie?" 

"Yes.  Thank  God  for  Adriana!"  said  Mrs. 
Valetta  fervently.  "We  may  as  well  make  use 
of  her  while  we  have  her.  Perhaps  she  too  will 
scoot  off  in  the  night  soon. " 

So  we  went  back  and  sat  down  in  the  old  sweet 
way — Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  on  the  sofa,  Anna 
on  the  stool  by  her  side  embroidering,  and  Mrs. 
Valetta  rocking  herself  in  the  rocking-chair.  I 
with  my  everlasting  sketch-book  sketched  a 
figure  that  sat  carelessly  on  horseback  with  one 
hand  turned  in  on  the  hip.  But  I  kept  my  book 
out  of  the  reach  of  other  eyes. 


Faith  Calls  181 

Adriana  laid  tea.  There  was  intense  feeling 
in  the  room  and  expectation  hung  in  the  air. 
Anna  Cleeve  and  I  avoided  each  other's  glance, 
and  when  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  began  to 
whine  about  her  Monty  once  more,  her  friend 
gave  her  a  look  that  was  like  the  flash  of  a  knife 
in  the  air. 

"Don't  begin  that,  Nina,  for  God's  sake — wait  till 
you  're  hurt."  Surprise  dried  Nina  Skeffington- 
Smythe's  tears,  and  at  the  moment  a  man's  step 
was  heard  approaching.  Anna  Cleeve' s  teeth 
dug  into  her  lip  again  and  I  put  my  hand  to 
my  throat,  for  it  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
grown  a  great  pulse  there  that  was  suffocating 
me.  Mrs.  Valetta  rushed  to  the  door,  and  Dr. 
Abingdon  walked  in  bestowing  a  surprised  leer 
upon  her  for  this  unusually  ardent  welcome. 
She  would  not  or  could  not  conceal  her  dis- 
appointment. 

"Oh !  it 's  only  you, "  said  she  brutally,  and  even 
such  a  hardened  old  sinner  was  dashed  for  a 
moment.  But  I  invited  him  to  sit  by  me  and 
have  some  tea,  and  he  immediately  regained  his 
aplomb.  Nonie  Valetta  turned  her  back  on 
us  and  stood  by  the  .window  staring  out.  I 
poured  the  tea,-and  flat  expressionless  small  talk 
circulated  for  a  moment  or  two,  but  the  doctor 
had  some  news  for  us. 

"From  what  Kinsella  reports,  Blow  has  given 
orders  for  the  barricades  to  be  finished  to-night, 
and  every  one  is  to  sleep  in  laager." 


1 82  The  Claw 

"What!  Leave  our  beds?"  screamed  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  rolling  her  striped  eyes. 

"No,  take  them  with  you,"  said  the  doctor. 

Mrs.  Valetta  turned  angrily  on  him. 

"Ridiculous!  I  don't  believe  there  is  the 
faintest  chance  of  an  attack." 

"  It 's  what  they  're  doing  in  Salisbury  and 
Victoria.  We  're  very  lucky  if  we  don't  have 
to  be  shut  up  all  day  as  well  as  all  night. 
Pickets  have  been  thrown  out  round  the  town- 
ship, and  at  the  first  alarm  every  one  is  to  sprint 
for  laager.  Upon  such  an  occasion  I  shall  be 
the  first  man  in." 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  footsteps  of  a  new 
arrival — a  boy  called  Curry  this  time — with  an 
official  document  from  which  he  read  us  the 
information  that  we  had  just  received  viva  voce. 
We  were  instructed  that  the  place  was  now  under 
martial  law,  and  that  every  one  must  explicitly 
obey  the  word  of  the  Commandant  or  take  the 
consequences.  Furthermore,  we  were  all  to  be 
in  laager  before  sundown  every  evening.  After 
reading  his  document  very  grandly  Mr.  Curry 
invited  himself  to  a  cup  of  tea,  which  he  swallowed 
hastily.  He  then  departed  in  a  bustling  manner 
and  the  doctor  followed  in  his  wake.  We  were 
left  to  cogitate  upon  the  charms  of  laager. 

"Frightfully  jolly!"  said  Anna  Cleeve.  "To 
be  penned  in  every  night  with  a  lot  of  women  and 
old  men  and  screaming  babies.  I  wish  I  had 
hung  on  to  the  back  of  Connie  Brand's  cart." 


Faith  Calls  183 

We  had  heard  that  morning  of  the  latter' s  safe 
arrival  with  Judy  in  Salisbury. 

"It  '11  be  just  as  bad  in  Salisbury,"  said  Mrs. 
Valetta  gloomily.  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  was 
rapidly  making  a  calculation  of  the  likely  accom- 
modation in  the  laager. 

"There 's  the  court-house  room,  and  the  R.  M.'s 
office,  and  the  postmaster's  den  behind  the 
post-office — yes,  and  the  Mining  Commissioner's 
room  and  that  other  little  den  behind  the 
Magistrate's  office — the  N.  C.'s  room.  I  suppose 
every  one  will  crowd  into  the  big  court -room- 
thank  Heaven  I  brought  down  my  tent ;  we  '11 
have  it  pegged  out  in  the  yard,  Anna,  and  lace 
ourselves  in  at  night  and  be  perfectly  cool  and 
comfy." 

"E'um!"  agreed  Anna,  whose  thoughts  were 
obviously  elsewhere. 

"And  if  you  secure  the  N.  C.'s  office,  Mrs. 
Valetta,  we  shall  have  a  retiring-room  as  well 
for  the  evenings.  I  don't  see  why  we  should 
have  such  a  bad  time  after  all. " 

"It's  six  o'clock  now,"  said  Mrs.  Valetta. 
"I  should  think  we  had  better  begin  to  collect 
our  things  and  make  arrangements,  should  n't 
you,  Miss  Saurin?" 

I  agreed,  and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  stirred, 
but  Anna  Cleeve  pushed  her  back  into  her  place. 

"Oh,  not  yet,  not  yet.  What's  the  use  of 
rushing?  There 's  tons  of  time.  Let 's  talk 
things  over." 


1 84  The  Claw 

For  a  reason  which  we  all  very  well  knew,  she 
was  determined  not  to  go. 

"I  expect  some  one  else  will  be  in  directly  with 
more  instructions — we  might  just  as  well 
wait  and  see."  She  suddenly  turned  to  Mrs. 
Valetta.  "You  and  Miss  Saurin  get  ready, 
Nonie — never  mind  us." 

Mrs.  Valetta  made  no  move,  but  I  presently 
rose  and  with  an  indifferent  smile  left  them. 
What  did  it  matter?  If  he  did  come  I  was  only 
in  the  next  room.  I  could  hear  his  voice,  at 
least,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  best  so.  Could  I 
after  all  bear  to  meet  him  there,  casually,  under 
all  those  women's  eyes — Anna  Cleeve's  searching 
glance,  Nonie  Valetta's  ice-cold  stare? 

Perhaps  it  would  be  best  after  all,  I  thought, 
only  to  hear  his  voice;  an  opportunity  would 
come  later  to  speak  to  him.  Surely  he  would 
make  one ! 

Even  while  I  faltered,  standing  before  the 
broken  mirror  and  staring  at  my  own  pale  re- 
flection there,  his  hand  was  on  the  door,  and  he 
came  in  amongst  them  with  a  gay  greeting 
for  every  one.  Afterwards  it  seemed  to  my 
aching  ears  there  was  a  moment  of  expectation, 
an  almost  imperceptible  pause — as  though  he  had 
glanced  round  the  room  looking  for  some  one 
else.  His  words  seemed  to  verify  my  thought. 

"I  thought  I  should  find  every  one  here,"  he 
said,  and  my  heart  leapt.  Was  there  a  curious 
inflection  on  the  word  everyone,  or  did  I  only 


Faith  Calls  185 

imagine  it?  I  could  hear  him  stirring  the  tea 
they  had  given  him,  and  the  jingle  of  his  spoon 
in  the  saucer  afterwards,  and  the  showers  of 
questions  and  exclamations  that  fell  upon  him 
as  he  stood  drinking.  Very  clearly  I  heard  Mrs. 
Valetta's  question,  though  it  was  in  a  soft  and 
entreating  <voice  I  had  never  heard  her  use  before : 

"Why  are  you  going,  Kim?  Surely  it  is  your 
duty  to  stay  here  and  mind  us." 

"Yes,  do  stay,"  implored  Mrs.  Skeffington- 
Smythe.  "It  will  make  such  a  difference.  How 
safe  we  '11  all  feel!" 

Anna  Cleeve  said  nothing,  but  I  could  feel 
her  looking.  He  laughed  at  their  fears  and 
fancies,  waved  off  their  compliments,  and  made 
light  of  everything. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  only 
do  as  Blow  tells  you.  I  don't  for  a  moment  sup- 
pose there  's  to  be  any  fighting  here  or  I  would  n't 
go;  there  won't  be  any  fighting  anywhere; 
the  brutes  are  sure  to  run  as  soon  as  we 
come  up  with  them;  we  shall  be  back  in  a 
week  or  two — you  '11  see.  I  must  go  now. 
This  is  'Hail  and  Farewell!'  for  the  time  being. 
We  leave  in  about  an  hour's  time  and  I  've  a 
power  of  work  to  do  yet." 

Still  he  did  not  go.  Still  I  stood  staring  into 
the  mirror. 

"Oh,  of  course  we  shall  come  out  and  see  you 
off,"  they  said. 

There  was  a  little  pause.     He  appeared  to  be 


1 86  The  Claw 

on  the  point  of  leaving;  a  chain  jingled  and  the 
creak  of  some  leather  strap  he  wore  about  him 
could  be  plainly  heard.  He  struck  his  riding- 
boot  with  something  he  held  in  his  hand.  I 
stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  staring — staring — at 
the  pale  passionate  waiting  face  in  the  glass  before 
me.  What  was  I  waiting  for  so  passionately? 

"Where  is  Miss  Saurin?"  he  said. 

At  this  a  wave  of  pure  happiness  seemed  to 
sweep  over  me  and  recede  again,  leaving  me  as 
weak  and  faint  as  if  a  real  great  wave  of  the  sea 
had  dashed  itself  against  me.  I  leaned  upon  the 
dressing- table,  trembling  and  helpless  to  move, 
and  dimly  in  my  throbbing  head  I  heard  the  an- 
swers carelessly  given  that  I  was  about  somewhere, 
getting  my  things  ready  to  go  into  laager — busy 
doing  something  or  other. 

A  moment  later  he  was  gone,  with  I  know  not 
what  thought  in  his  heart.  Those  women  had 
the  wisdom  not  to  come  and  look  for  me  after- 
wards. I  think  my  eyes  would  have  struck  them 
dead  as  they  entered  the  room. 

In  a  little  while  I  had  recovered  myself  and 
went  calmly  on  with  my  preparations.  Judy's 
rouge  box,  forgotten,  stood  open  on  the  table. 
I  had  never  used  paint  in  my  life,  but  at  the  sight 
of  my  white  face  in  the  mirror  I  dipped  my 
finger  into  the  red  powder  and  made  two  little 
smears  on  my  face  before  I  re-entered  the 
sitting  room.  Nonie  Valetta  was  at  the  window 
again;  the  other  two  had  gone. 


Faith  Calls  187 


At  seven  o'clock  ten  horses  were  standing 
saddled  and  bridled  in  the  square,  and  speculation 
was  rife  as  to  who  the  tenth  was  for.  Maurice 
Stair  had  been  put  out  of  business  by  his  sprained 
arm,  so  it  had  been  decided  that  he  could  not 
go  to  the  front,  evidently  some  one  had  been 
chosen  in  his  place.  Wrath  and  envy  mingled 
with  curiosity  was  written  upon  the  face  of  every 
stay-behind. 

Was  it  possible  that  Clinton  (the  man  most 
unwillingly  left  in  charge  of  our  guns)  was  break- 
ing away  after  all?  they  fiercely  asked.  Had 
Stair's  arm  miraculously  recovered?  Was  Bleks- 
ley  an  open  rebel?  Had  the  doctor  suddenly 
become  inspired  with  a  lust  for  war? — but  that 
was  too  far-fetched  a  supposition  even  for 
Mashonaland ! 

The  horse  was  gravely  examined:  an  ancient 
beast  with  gnarled  hocks,  no  tail,  and  a  dappling 
of  tiny  dark  blue  pits  on  his  grey  hide,  as  though 
he  had  suffered  with  small-pox  in  some  long-past 
year.  But  there  was  spirit  in  his  eye,  and  some 
one  murmured  over  him  the  mystic  word 
"salted." 

"He  won't  die  of  dik-kop  this  journey!"  was 
prophetically  announced. 

The  men  were  "riding  light";  all  that  was  on 
the  horses  was  a  blanket,  a  mackintosh  sheet, 
and  a  wallet  with  food  enough  for  two  or  three 
days. 


1 88  The  Claw 

It  was  popularly  stated  that  this  little  crowd 
had  an  excellent  chance  of  meeting  a  Matabele 
impi,  and  being  cut  off  before  they  had  gone 
twenty  miles.  However,  they  came  out  of  Swears's, 
where  most  of  them  had  been  snatching  a  last 
hasty  meal,  laughing  like  schoolboys,  and  all 
the  stay-behinds  hung  and  clamoured  after 
them,  eyeing  the  horses  wistfully,  giving  grandilo- 
quent advice  about  everything,  and  complaining 
bitterly  of  their  lot. 

To  every  one's  amazement  it  was  seen  that 
the  tenth  man  was  no  other  than  Dr.  Marriott. 
Suddenly  appearing  he  shambled  on  to  the  grey 
horse,  mounted  awkwardly  and  sat  there,  a 
moody  drooping  figure,  looking  as  though  he 
belonged  to  some  other  world  than  that  of  the 
gay  jesting  crowd  around  him;  possibly  he  did; 
probably  he  was  lost  in  strange  dreams  of  the 
strange  lands  of  which  De  Quincey  has  told  us. 

Swift  enquiries  were  as  swiftly  answered,  and 
the  whispered  news  flew  round  that,  obsessed 
by  his  desire  to  go  to  the  front,  he  had  pleaded 
with  Anthony  Kinsella  and  not  pleaded  in  vain. 
Anthony,  against  all  advice,  had  consented  to 
take  him  in  the  place  of  Stair.  There  was  no 
lack  of  criticism  on  the  mistaken  weakness  of 
Kim. 

"The  fellow  's  a  waster " 

"He  will  only  be  a  drag — he's  a  good-for- 
nothing!" 

"He's  dopey  now — lost  in  pipe  dreams." 


Faith  Calls  189 

"And  he  rides  fourteen  stone — his  horse 
will  freck  by  the  way." 

"No,  that  's  a  mistake — he  only  rides  eight 
and  a  half — he  's  all  leather  and  bones  since 
he  took  to  the  juice  of  the  poppy. " 

I  looked  round  for  Mrs.  Marriott,  fearing  she 
might  overhear  some  of  these  frank  comments, 
low-spoken  as  they  were,  but  she  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen  and  at  that  moment  Anthony  Kinsella 
came  on  to  the  court-house  verandah  with 
Colonel  Blow  and  another  man.  He  was  smiling 
at  some  remark  of  the  latter,  but  as  he  ran  down 
the  steps  the  smile  fell  from  him  and  his  face  took 
on  the  hard,  dark,  hawk-like  look  habitual  to  it. 
He  strode  in  amongst  the  horses  and  seized  his 
own.  Laughter  and  good-byes  still  hung  on  the 
air,  but  he  bade  good-bye  to  no  one;  abruptly 
in  that  rough  voice  with  a  crake  in  it  that  thrilled 
and  filled  me  with  longing  to  be  a  man  too,  to 
spring  upon  a  horse,  and  ride  with  him  into  the 
night,  he  terminated  their  laughter  and  farewell. 

"Cut  this  short,  you  fellows!" 

A  moment  later  every  one  was  in  the  saddle 
ready  to  start.  He  was  the  only  one  left  standing. 
He  stood  there  amongst  them,  suddenly  still  as 
though  he  had  forgotten  something  and  was  trying 
to  remember  what  it  was;  and  he  was  staring, 
staring,  over  heads,  past  faces,  through  the  scarlet 
rays  of  the  sinking  sun,  straight  into  my  eyes; 
and  I  was  staring  back  into  his. 

.We  took  a  long,  long  look  at  one  another,  and 


190  The  Claw 

I  think  he  read  all  that  was  in  my  heart  for  him; 
while  what  I  saw  told  me  that  if  all  the  world 
said  otherwise  I  was  to  know  that  Anthony  Kin- 
sella  was  a  true  man  and  no  knave.  Those 
straight  steady  eyes  were  never  the  windows  of  a 
false  soul.  I  had  given  myself  to  no  traitor  and 
liar,  but  to  a  brave  and  upright  man,  gentle  and 
strong  and  fine. 

And  he  was  going  from  me:  only  God  and  the 
old  blind  hag  Fate  knew  if  I  should  ever  see  him 
again.  Mayhap  this  was  our  farewell,  this  passing 
of  hearts  through  the  eyes;  and  it  was  not  enough. 
Body  and  spirit  cried  out  for  more — a  touching 
of  hands  at  least.  His  eyes  called  me,  dragged  me ; 
it  was  as  though  he  thrust  his  hand  into  my  breast 
and  laid  hold  of  my  bare  heart  drawing  it  out 
towards  himself,  and  with  it  me.  For  I  felt  my 
feet  moving — moving,  and  swiftly  and  straight 
I  walked  to  him,  into  his  open  arms,  and  he  kissed 
me  on  the  lips,  there  before  every  one. 

"God  keep  you,  my  heart!  Wait  for  me — and 
believe  in  me,"  he  said,  and  though  his  voice 
was  low  the  words  rang  out  clear  and  strong  on 
the  still  air  for  all  to  hear  who  listed.  In  that 
moment  misery  and  distrust  was  wiped  from  my 
heart  and  from  my  life,  as  though  it  had  never 
been. 

An  instant  later  all  was  over,  he  was  riding 
ahead  of  his  little  band,  away  into  the  sunset: 
and  the  men  and  the  children  were  cheering, 
hands  were  waving,  hats  and  handkerchiefs 


Faith  Calls  191 

fluttering.  Cheer  upon  cheer  rang  through  the 
air,  and  voices  came  ringing  back,  until  they 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  last  only  the 
far-off  thud  of  the  horses'  feet  was  heard. 

Later  I  became  aware  that  I  was  standing 
alone.  The  women  I  had  come  with  had  disap- 
peared, and  the  few  men  left  were  looking  at  me 
curiously.  None  of  them  were  men  I  knew. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  woman  laugh  in  a  strange 
fashion.  It  was  one  of  the  sullen  Dutch  women 
Anthony  had  brought  back  from  Linkwater. 
She  stood  amongst  her  Dutch  friends  and  made  a 
remark,  speaking  coarsely  and  pronouncing  her 
words  in  a  strangely  raucous  way : 

"  Yah  vot\  .  .  .  he's  very  faskinating,  darie 
Kinsella.  .  .  .  Too  bad  he's  married  already!" 

Again  she  laughed  that  coarse,  rankling  laugh, 
and  this  time  one  or  two  of  her  men  friends 
joined  her.  I  stood  perfectly  still  as  though  I 
had  heard  nothing,  as  though  I  had  been  turned 
to  stone.  I  was  realising  with  a  terrible  cold- 
ness at  my  heart  that  the  look  of  truth  and 
honour  I  had  read  in  Anthony  Kinsella's  eyes 
had  not  been  so  plain  to  others.  A  message  had 
come  to  me  from  his  very  soul;  but  it  was  to  me 
only.  I  knew  that  all  was  well  between  us,  that 
the  way  was  open  and  fair  before  us,  that  I  could 
believe  and  trust  him  to  the  death.  But  these 
others  did  not.  They  thought  I  had  been  kissed 
by  some  other  woman's  husband! 

Well!     It  had  to  be  so.     They  only  thought — 


192  The  Claw 

I  knew.  And  I  could  afford  to  wait  and  prove 
my  faith.  He  would  be  back  soon.  At  that 
thought  colour  came  back  into  my  cheeks  and 
blood  to  my  heart.  I  lifted  my  head  proudly 
and  walked  from  them  all. 

One  of  the  Dutchmen  made  a  remark  in  a  loud, 
astonished  voice: 

"Maar!  ek  ser  for  yoh!  these  Engelsch  women 
have  a  damned  cheek." 


Before  the  next  hour  was  out  I  was  face  to 
face  with  the  fact  that  all  the  women  I  knew 
in  the  place  meant  to  cut  me.  Mrs.  Valetta 
did  not  leave  me  long  in  doubt  as  to  her  inten- 
tions. On  my  return  to  the  house,  to  collect 
my  things  for  the  night  in  laager,  she  came  to 
the  door  with  a  tempestuous  face  and  over  her 
head  the  eyes  of  Annabel  Cleeve,  with  the  gleam 
of  a  knife  in  them,  met  mine. 

"As  your  most  unwilling  chaperon,"  Mrs. 
Valetta  burst  out,  "I  have  some  right  to  ask  you, 
Miss  Saurin,  for  an  explanation  of  your  scandalous 
behaviour." 

Tempest  began  to  rage  in  me  also,  but  I  an- 
swered her  civilly. 

"I  do  not  for  a  moment  admit  that  I  have  be- 
haved scandalously,  Mrs.  Valetta,  but  as  you 
say  that  you  have  a  right  to  an  explanation  will 
you  kindly  tell  me  what  it  is  you  want  explained?  " 

"Explained!"  she  cried  violently.     "You  can 


Faith  Calls  193 

never  explain  away  your  infamous  conduct 
of  the  last  half -hour — not  if  you  live  to  be  a 
hundred.  Kissing  a  married  man  in  that  open 
and  shameless  manner!  Your  reputation  is  gone 
for  ever." 

"You  think  it  would  have  been  more  pardonable 
if  I  had  done  it  secretly?"  I  was  driven  to  saying. 
She  glared  at  me  with  the  utmost  fury. 

"You  can't  jest  it  away,  so  don't  mislead 
yourself.  You  are  done  for  forever  in  Mashona- 
land." 

"I'm  frightfully  sorry  for  your  poor  sister- 
in-law,"  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  chimed  in 
pleasantly  from  her  seat  on  the  sofa.  "She  is 
so  peculiarly  sensitive  about  scandal." 

Annabel  Cleeve  now  contributed  her  little 
damnatory  verse  to  the  commination  service. 

"It  must  be  admitted  that  we  live  in  a  free 
and  easy  fashion  up  here :  but  neither  the  manners 
or  morals  of  the  Quartier  Latin  are  ever  likely  to 
become  popular." 

I  surveyed  them  with  such  calmness  as  I  could 
for  the  moment  command,  this  three-cornered 
attack  being  quite  unexpected. 

"You  are  all  exceedingly  kind  and  charitable," 
I  said,  "and  your  solicitude  for  my  reputation 
is  quite  touching " 

"Don't  talk  of  what  you  have  not,"  broke  in 
Mrs.  Valetta  vindictively.  "If  you  ever  had  a 
reputation  it  is  gone.  You  can't  kiss  Tony 

Kinsella  with  impunity." 
13 


194  The  Claw 

"I  never  do  anything  with  impunity,"  I  said 
with  burning  cheeks  but  making  a  great  effort 
to  control  my  anger.  "I  kissed  Anthony  Kin- 
sella  as  any  girl  may  kiss  the  man  she  is  going 
to  marry." 

Anna  Cleeve  gasped  as  though  she  had  received 
a  blow,  then  she  laughed  and  Mrs.  Valetta  joined 
her,  but  their  laughter  made  a  jarring  and  unlovely 
jangle. 

"A  man  may  not  have  two  wives — even  in  the 
Quartier  Latin,  I  believe,"  sneered  Miss  Cleeve 
with  her  mouth  awry,  and  Mrs.  Valetta  broke 
in  harshly: 

"It  is  ridiculous  to  pretend  to  be  unenlightened 
on  that  point.  I  warned  you  that  he  was  married 
and  I  shall  let  every  one  know  that  you  were  not 
in  ignorance  of  the  fact. " 

"I  do  not  believe  what  you  told  me.  It  is 
not  true, "  I  said,  my  anger  breaking  out  at  last. 
"And  I  refuse  to  discuss  the  matter  further. 
There  is  not  a  grain  of  generosity  amongst  the 
three  of  you.  You  prefer  to  believe  the  worst; 
do  so."  As  I  turned  to  leave  the  room  and  the 
house  I  stopped  for  an  instant  and  faced  them. 
My  passionate  words  seemed  to  have  stricken 
them  dumb.  "But  do  not  believe  that  I  do  not 
know  what  my  real  crime  is." 

Nonie  Valetta  sat  down  suddenly  on  a  chair 
and  passed  her  handkerchief  across  her  dry 
mouth.  She  looked  like  a  haunted  thing,  and 
I  was  sorry  for  her.  But  Anna  Cleeve  faced  me 


Faith  Calls  195 

with  sneering  lips.  Malice  and  some  other  bitter 
passion  stared  from  her  eyes,  and  she  half  whis- 
pered, half  hissed,  a  word  at  me  across  the  dark- 
ening room. 

"What?" 

"That  Anthony  Kinsella  loves  me."  The 
words  had  formed  on  my  lips  and  I  was  ready 
to  fling  them  at  her:  but  I  did  not.  I  left  the 
words  unsaid  and  anger  died  down  within  me, 
for  I  could  recognise  despair  when  I  saw  it.  It 
was  not  hard  for  me  to  imagine  the  torment  of 
a  woman  who  loved  Anthony  Kinsella  and  was 
passed  by.  I  could  afford  to  be  generous: 
generosity  was  demanded  of  me. 

"Let  it  all  pass,"  I  said  gently,  and  turning 
from  them  opened  the  door  and  went  out  of  the 
house. 


CHAPTER   IX 

DESPAIR  CALLS 

'It  is  not  the  perfect  but  the  imperfect  that  have  need  of  love. " 

AS  I  followed  the  little  pathway  which  led 
from  the  house  to  the  post-office  buildings, 
where  we  were  all  to  be  shut  in  for  the  night, 
some  one  came  running  towards  me  and  I  presently 
recognised  Mr.  Maurice  Stair. 

"Where  are  the  other  ladies?"  he  cried.  "Is 
that  you,  Miss  Saurin?  Colonel  Blow  is  fearfully 
annoyed  that  you  are  n't  all  in  long  ago.  There 
has  been  a  warning  sent  in  from  the  patrol  and 
it 's  quite  on  the  cards  that  we  may  be  attacked 
to-night." 

As  he  reached  me  I  saw  that  there  was 
another  man  behind  him.  The  light  was  not 
good  but  I  was  able  to  distinguish  a  short, 
thick  figure,  and  a  puffy,  fiery  face.  Upon  the 
evening  air  I  also  recognised  that  faint  sickening 
aroma  of  spirits  I  had  already  learned  to  associate 
with  complexions  of  such  radiant  hue. 

"This  is  Mr.  Skeffington-Smythe.     He  was  so 

anxious  about  his  wife  that  he  left  the  column 

196 


Despair  Calls  197 

at  Charter  and  has  come  down  here  to  stay  in 
laager  and  look  after  her."  Mr.  Stair  was  at 
no  pains  to  conceal  the  note  of  irony  in  his 
voice,  but  it  appeared  to  be  quite  lost  upon  his 
companion. 

So  this  was  the  gallant  dare-devil  Monty! 

"Where  is  the  poor  little  woman?"  he  confi- 
dentially enquired,  lurching  towards  me.  But 
I  withdrew  hastily  beyond  his  radius,  and  moved 
on,  waving  my  hand  towards  the  house  I  had 
just  left. 

"You  '11  find  them  all  there — and  Mr.  Stair, 
bring  my  dressing-case  will  you?  I  've  come 
without  it." 

I  had  indeed  come  without  anything,  and  with- 
out an  idea  of  where  I  was  to  sleep  or  spend  the 
night.  It  is  true  that  I  had  seen  Adriana  piling 
up  rugs  and  mattresses,  mine  amongst  them,  and 
carrying  them  out,  but  I  could  not  suppose  that 
Mrs.  Valetta  had  given  any  special  directions 
for  my  comfort. 

The  post-office  was  humming  like  a  beehive. 
Men  were  hastily  finishing  the  barricades,  and 
Colonel  Blow  was  shouting  instructions  with  a 
sandwich  in  one  hand  and  a  sand-bag  in  the  other. 
Evidently  he  had  had  no  time  to  dine.  Lanterns 
flickered  everywhere,  and  a  group  of  men  were 
getting  a  Hotchkiss  into  position  on  top  of  a  piece 
of  raised  ground.  One  man  was  hopping  about, 
groaning  and  swearing  because  the  wheel  of 
the  carriage  had  gone  over  his  toe.  Others  were 


198  The  Claw 

struggling  with  barbed  wire  of  which  an  entangle- 
ment was  being  made  for  an  outer  defence. 

I  passed  through  the  doors  of  the  building,  and 
going  along  a  wide  passage  came  out  into  a 
verandah  which  gave  on  to  a  large  court-yard. 
This  was  the  prison  yard,  and  away  at  the  other 
end  of  it  were  the  cells — a  line  of  strong  doors 
and  barred  windows.  A  fire  near  by  had  a  three- 
legged  pot  upon  it  which  gave  up  a  smell  of  stew ; 
and  another  fire  had  a  large  kettle  boiling  over 
it  from  a  tripod. 

All  round  the  inside  of  the  walls  ran  a  wooden 
balcony.  This  had  been  roughly  erected  during 
the  past  week,  but  it  was  sufficiently  strong  to 
support  the  men  who  would  have  to  stand  to 
the  walls,  and  fire  over  them  in  case  of  an  attack 
at  close  quarters. 

In  the  centre  of  the  yard  tents  had  been  pegged 
out.  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe's,  a  red-and-white- 
striped  affair  dominated  the  situation,  and  struck 
a  gay  sort  of  sea-side  note;  several  children  were 
frolicking  in  and  out  of  it,  diving  under  the  flaps 
and  showering  laughter.  The  Dutch  women  had 
slung  all  their  things  against  the  wall  and  were 
sitting  on  the  heap,  one  of  them  nursing  a  baby, 
the  other  feeding  a  small  child  with  bits  cut  off 
a  strip  of  biltong.  Many  piles  of  rugs  and  blankets 
were  lying  about  on  the  gravelled  ground,  and  by 
the  dim  light  of  several  paraffin  lamps  suspended 
from  the  verandah  I  recognised  Mrs.  Marriott 
turning  over  pile  after  pile,  evidently  in  search 


Despair  Calls  199 

of  her  own.  Near  me  in  the  verandah  a  little 
group  of  Fort  George  women  were  standing. 
They  had  the  quiet  air  of  sensible,  self-possessed 
women,  prepared  for  any  emergency,  and  there 
was  no  fuss  or  excitement  about  them  at  all. 
They  behaved  as  though  sleeping  in  laager  was 
an  everyday  affair.  I  heard  Mrs.  Grant  say  that 
Colonel  Blow  had  just  told  her  that  the  alarm 
had  been  a  false  one  occasioned  by  some  stray 
oxen  which  had  approached  the  outlying  picket; 
and  Mrs.  Burney  said  casually  that  she  had  felt 
sure  it  was  something  of  the  kind  and  that  there 
was  no  likelihood  of  an  attack  until  the  main 
impis  had  been  engaged  with  some  of  our  men. 
They  dismissed  the  subject  carelessly.  Another 
woman  said: 

"My  ClifHe  and  your  boy  Dick  are  rather  big 
to  put  in  among  the  little  ones,  so  I  've  fixed 
them  up  in  a  little  dormitory  by  themselves 
behind  the  prisoners'  dock. " 

"My  chicks  are  fast  asleep  already,  and 
now  that  we  Ve  got  that  curtain  up  don't 
you  think  it  would  be  as  well  if  we  all  went 
off  to  bed?" 

"It  will  certainly  leave  the  coast  clear  for  the 
other  women." 

"Yes:  that  is  what  I  mean." 

"Oh,  and  Mrs.  Grant  have  you  got  those 
biscuits  for  your  little  Allie?" 

"Everything  belonging  to  us  is  in  there,  and 
I  Ve  brought  my  spirit-lamp  to  make  tea  in  the 


2oo  The  Claw 

morning.  I  expect  we  shall  have  to  turn  out 
early." 

"At  seven  thirty  Colonel  Blow  told  me.  Three 
of  those  tents  are  for  the  hospital  sisters — they 
are  coming  into  laager  too — but  not  until  the 
last  thing  at  night,  and  they  're  to  go  first  thing 
in  the  morning;  there  will  be  a  strong  guard 
round  the  hospital  all  night." 

As  I  listened  to  these  gentle,  simple  souls  how 
I  wished  it  had  been  to  their  set  I  belonged  in- 
stead of  to  the  set  that  looked  over  their  heads 
and  called  them  frumps  and  dowds.  With  their 
families  of  young  children  round  them  most 
of  them  had  parted  with  a  husband  whom  she 
might  never  see  again.  Yet  here  they  were 
with  cheerful  faces  making  their  plans  and  fixing 
up  their  children  to  take  up  as  small  amount  of 
room  and  be  as  little  nuisance  as  possible.  I 
realised  that  as  Dr.  Jameson  had  said,  these 
were  the  real  pioneers  and  patriots.  These  were 
the  people  Mr.  Rhodes  needed  for  his  new  bit  of 
Empire ! 

As  they  were  leaving  the  verandah  one  of  them 
gave  a  glance  down  the  yard  and  stopped. 

"There  's  poor  Mrs.  Marriott!  I  wonder  if — 
could  n't  we  ask  her  to  come  in  with  us?" 

They  discussed  the  matter  softly  amongst 
themselves. 

"I'm  afraid  she  wouldn't,  Mrs.  Burney. 
Poor  thing,  she  is  so  frightfully  sensitive — she 
might  think  we  were  pitying  her. " 


Despair  Calls  201 

"We'll  chance  that.  I'll  go  and  ask  her — 
shall  I?" 

She  went  quickly  to  where  Mrs.  Marriott  was 
now  sitting  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  on  an 
unshapely  roll  of  blankets. 

"Mrs.  Marriott — do  let  me  help  you  get  your 
things  in,"  she  said.  "And  have  you  settled 
on  a  place  yet?  Won't  you  come  in  with  Mrs. 
Grant  and  Mrs.  Shannon  and  me?  We  're 
packed  like  sardines,  with  the  children,  but  I  'm 
sure  we  can  make  room  for  one  sardine  more — 

"Oh!  no.  No,  thank  you,"  stammered  the 
other  woman.  "  I  prefer  being  alone.  It  does  n't 
matter  where  I  am.  I  can  manage  without  any 
one's  help. 

She  had  begun  by  being  emotional  and  ended 
by  being  rude:  but  Mrs.  Burney  did  not  take 
offence. 

"Well,  be  sure  and  come  to  us  if  you  find  that 
you're  not  comfortable,"  she  said  cheerily  as 
she  hurried  away. 

A  Dutch  woman's  husband  presently  appeared 
and  helped  to  sort  out  the  children  and  various 
utensils  from  the  Dutch  domestic  heap.  It 
became  plain  that  they  were  to  be  bestowed 
en  bloc  for  the  night  in  one  of  the  prison  cells. 
Whilst  I  was  watching  them  make  a  trek  to  the 
end  of  the  yard,  a  large  stately  woman,  who 
looked  like  a  dowager  duchess,  staggered  in 
under  the  weight  of  many  bundles,  followed  by 
a  haughty  satellite  with  a  Wellington  nose,  who 


202  The  Claw 

might  have  been  at  least  a  princess  of  the  blood, 
so  scornful  was  her  air  and  the  swish  of  her 
petticoat.  I  had  never  seen  these  imposing 
people  before  and  wondered  who  they  could  pos- 
sibly be,  but  they  evidently  had  the  advantage 
of  me  in  this  matter,  for  I  distinctly  heard  my 
name  whispered  between  them.  They  surveyed 
me  curiously  as  if  glad  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  inspecting  me  so  closely.  I  returned  their 
gaze  tranquilly  and  at  last  they  went  away. 

Eventually  there  was  no  one  left  in  the  yard 
but  Mrs.  Marriott  and  myself.  I  looked  at  her. 
She  sat  absolutely  still  on  her  untidy  heap  of 
clothes,  her  body  slightly  bent  forward,  both 
hands  tucked  down  in  her  lap.  A  straw  sailor- 
hat  was  pulled  over  her  face,  and  her  lank, 
heavy,  dark  hair  lay  in  a  dreary  sort  of  knot 
far  down  the  nape  of  her  neck,  shewing,  between 
hat  and  hair,  a  long,  unbeautiful  line  that 
had  a  kind  of  despair  in  it.  Her  thin  figure  in 
a  well-fitting  gown  might  have  been  pretty  and 
temperamental,  but  in  the  faded  pink  blouse, 
and  now  historical  grey  skirt,  soiled  and  shape- 
less and  frayed  at  the  edges,  she  was  merely  thin 
and  shabby  and  utterly  unattractive.  I  never 
saw  a  more  hopeless  look  worn  by  any  woman. 
It  was  not  only  that  she  was  shabby — she 
was  as  spiritless  as  a  dead  crow.  Her  clothes 
drooped  upon  her  as  the  leaves  of  a  withering 
pumpkin  flower  droop  in  the  sun.  Her  face  wore 
the  terrible  look  of  uninteresting,  unloved  middle- 


Despair  Calls  203 

age  that  even  despair  cannot  mark  with  distinc- 
tion. Yet  she  must  once  have  had  good  looks 
far  above  the  average.  The  traces  of  them  were 
on  her  still — but  they  were  only  traces. 

Presently  Mrs.  Valetta  and  her  party  arrived. 
Adriana,  loaded  like  a  beast  of  burden,  brought 
my  dressing-case  to  me  immediately,  but  the 
others  when  they  saw  me  turned  and  fled  as  if 
from  the  yellow  peril.  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe, 
extraordinarily  pale  and  subdued,  made  her  way 
to  her  striped  tent,  followed  by  her  husband  who 
talked  vivaciously  and  fondly  to  the  back  of  her 
gown.  He  had  a  very  thick-lipped  mouth  with 
a  tiny  straw-coloured  moustache  perched  upon 
it,  whilst  around  it  a  smile  hovered  unceasingly. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  the  spirit  of  good-will  and 
camaraderie  (mingled  with  other  spirits)  towards 
all  the  world:  but  it  was  evident  that  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  was  not  under  his  spell.  She 
kept  on,  saying  nothing.  Only,  as  she  went  to 
pull  down  the  flap  of  the  tent  I  saw  her  eyes 
snapping,  and  she  pulled  so  hard  that  the  tent 
flapped  over  on  her  and  her  devoted  husband, 
whereupon  a  number  of  strange  words  issued  in 
muffled  tones  from  under  the  billowing  canvas; 
and  they  were  not  all  uttered  in  a  man's  voice. 
Later,  whilst  they  were  at  the  business  of  pegging 
it  out  again,  Mrs.  Valetta  came  on  to  the  verandah 
and  called  out  that  she  and  Miss  Cleeve  had  found 
a  small  room  for  themselves.  Mr.  Skeffington- 
Smythe  blithely  responded: 


204  The  Claw 

"Ah!  Good — That  is  good! — very  good.  I 
will  come  and  see  what  I  can  do  for  you 
presently  when  I  have  fixed  up  my  dear  little 
woman. " 

But  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  uttered  never  a 
word.  Only,  when  next  her  Monty  addressed 
a  fond  remark  to  her  she  very  briefly  and  vio- 
lently replied : 

"Oh,  shut  up!" 

It  was  plain  that  I  was  to  be  left  to  my  fate. 
Adriana  had  brought  some  rugs  and  thrown 
them  on  to  my  dressing-case,  and  I  seated 
myself  upon  them  to  consider  the  matter  of  ac- 
commodation for  the  night.  A  slight  drizzle  of 
rain  began  to  fall,  making  the  fires  hiss  softly, 
and  throwing  a  sad  little  veil  over  everything. 

Perhaps  I  looked  nearly  as  hopeless  and  for- 
lorn as  Mrs.  Marriott,  but  I  was  far  from  feeling  so. 
I  had  the  light  heart  of  the  woman  who  loves  and 
is  beloved  again,  with  the  whole  of  life  stretching 
out  beautifully  before  me,  and  it  would  have  taken 
more  than  all  the  rain  out  of  heaven  to  drench 
the  joy  out  of  me  that  night.  All  the  same  it 
behoved  me  to  be  up  and  doing.  There  was 
no  sense  in  getting  wet  and  it  also  seemed  indi- 
cated that  I  should  rescue  Mrs.  Marriott  from  a 
watery  fate. 

Certainly,  I  had  heard  her  refuse  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  that  nice,  kind  little  Mrs.  Burney, 
but  Mrs.  Burney  had  not  had  a  passionate  flame 
of  love  and  faith  re-lit  in  her  heart  that  very 


Despair  Calls  205 

night  as  I  had.  I  felt  loving-kind  to  all  the  world, 
and  as  though  I  could  simply  feed  on  snubs  if 
only  they  came  from  some  one  who  was  really 
unhappy — not  merely  cross  or  spiteful. 

And  surely  this  poor  woman  sitting  on  the 
rugs  was  unhappy,  and  had  cause  to  be.  I  re- 
membered Dr.  Marriott's  face  as  he  turned  to  the 
west,  and  the  new  light  that  had  been  lit  in  his 
doomed  eyes  by  the  strong,  kind  action  of  Anthony 
Kinsella — my  Anthony  Kinsella. 

We  were  alone  in  the  big  yard  now — Mrs. 
Marriott  and  I;  and  silence  reigned,  except  for 
the  murmur  of  Mr.  Skeffington-Smythe's  voice 
inside  the  closed  tent.  Perhaps  he  was  explaining 
to  his  dear  little  woman  why  he  was  the  only 
man  in  the  town  not  out  on  patrol  or  helping  with 
the  barricades. 

I  moved  stealthily  in  the  direction  of  my 
premeditated  attack. 

"Mrs.  Marriott!"  I  said  in  a  pathetic  way  I 
have.  "  I  do  wish  you  would  take  care  of  me  and 
let  me  stay  with  you  to-night.  I  've  been  left 
out  in  the  cold  by  the  other  women." 

She  turned  a  pair  of  utterly  tragic  eyes  upon 
me.  Her  mouth  was  the  mouth  of  a  woman  with 
whom  things  had  always  gone  wrong. 

"I  would  rather  be  alone,"  she  said  in  her 
cold,  dull  way.  This  was  not  encouraging  but 
I  persisted,  and  my  voice  became  very  wistful 
indeed. 

"Oh,  do  be  friendly.     I   am  a   stranger   here 


206  The  Claw 

and  I  feel  utterly  lost.    What   does  one  do  in 
laager?" 

She  looked  at  me  vaguely. 

"I  don't  know.  It  is  a  new  kind  of  misery 
to  me,  too." 

"Well,  let's  beat  it  out  together,  shall  we? 
We  ought  to  be  able  to  find  a  corner  somewhere. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to  search?" 

She  stared  at  me  for  a  moment,  then  stood  up 
hesitatingly.  I  made  haste  to  lead  the  way. 
After  making  a  tour  of  the  verandah  and  looking 
into  every  window  we  came  to,  we  went  inside 
and  tried  all  the  doors.  Most  of  them  were 
locked,  signifying  that  the  room  was  full-up.  At 
last  there  was  no  place  left  except  to  try  the 
room  where  the  sorting  and  storing  of  mails 
went  on.  The  main  part  of  this  was  a  wide 
passage  with  a  door  at  each  end — an  impossible 
place  to  camp  out  in.  However,  there  was  a 
counter  with  a  wooden  partition  above  it,  and 
going  behind  this  I  discovered  quite  a  cosey  little 
retreat.  It  had  rather  a  mail-baggy  smell,  but 
that  was  a  trifle  to  be  ignored  in  such  times  of 
stress  as  these. 

"We  can  make  ourselves  quite  comfy  here," 
I  said.  "When  we  have  locked  both  doors  in 
case  the  postmaster  unexpectedly  returns.  Now 
let  us  get  our  mattresses  and  rugs,  shall  we?" 

She  had  no  mattress :  only  a  few  striped  coloured 
blankets  of  the  kind  that  the  natives  drape  around 
themselves.  However,  I  had  plenty  of  rugs,  and 


Despair  Calls  207 

my  mattress  though  narrow  was  wide  enough 
for  two  at  a  pinch.  But  she  jibbed  at  sharing 
it. 

"Why  should  I  make  you  uncomfortable?" 
she  said. 

I  stared  at  her  and  laughed. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Marriott,  I  shall  be  ever  so  much 
more  uncomfortable  if  you  don't.  Now  be  a 
brick  and  do  as  I  ask  you. " 

For  some  unknown  reason  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  and  her  mouth  began  to  quiver  in  a  queer 
way.  I  turned  away  hastily,  and  having  bolted 
the  outside  door  began  to  barricade  it  with  a 
heap  of  empty  mail-bags.  Whilst  I  was  rum- 
maging I  came  quite  by  accident  upon  the  post- 
master's little  private  supply  of  stores,  and  in  the 
spirit  of  martial-law  I  immediately  commandeered 
them  for  the  public  benefit.  There  were  sugar, 
tea,  candles,  some  tins  of  "bully  beef"  and  a 
canister  of  delicious-smelling  coffee. 

" Banzai!  We'll  be  able  to  make  some  coffee 
to  keep  their  spirits  up — they  must  be  jolly  tired. 
Come  along,  Mrs.  Marriott,  let 's  go  and  com- 
mandeer some  of  that  crockery  and  the  kettle  of 
water  in  the  yard. " 

She  seemed  quite  keen,  so  we  unbarred  and 
unbolted  again  and  went  out  to  the  yard-fire 
where  the  kettle  was  still  lustily  boiling,  and  in 
five  minutes  we  had  two  large  jugs  full  of  ex- 
cellent coffee  ready.  There  is  a  saying  that 
Boers  come  to  coffee  as  the  asvogels  come  to  dead 


208  The  Claw 

ox.  Very  disgusting,  but  evidently  true,  for 
the  smell  of  our  coffee  woke  up  the  Boer  family 
in  their  prison  cell  and  they  came  meandering 
forth,  sat  down  in  a  ring  round  the  fire,  and  looked 
so  wistfully  and  eloquently  at  the  big  jug  that 
we  had  to  give  them  some  all  round,  especially 
as  we  were  using  their  crockery.  Afterwards 
they  lent  us  their  beakers  and  enamel  cups  and 
we  made  a  forced  march  to  the  barricades.  When 
the  barricaders  also  smelt  the  arome  de  Java 
on  the  breeze  and  saw  the  big  jugs  we  were  carry- 
ing they  raised  a  cheer,  and  the  postmaster  said : 

"By  the  Lord,  that's  my  coffee,  or  I'm  a 
Boer!" 

We  gave  him  a  cup  for  forgiveness'  sake,  and 
Colonel  Blow  too,  and  afterwards  the  rest  of  them 
came  up  in  parties  and  we  ministered  to  them, 
washing  the  cups  after  each  lot  in  a  pail  of  water. 
When  all  the  white  men  had  finished,  we  served 
the  black  constables  and  convicts  a  beakerful 
apiece,  Colonel  Blow  having  sent  to  their  quarters 
for  their  own  beakers.  The  convicts,  melancholy- 
looking  fellows,  surveyed  me  with  a  shy  curiosity, 
I  suppose  because  I  was  a  newcomer.  But 
Colonel  Blow  for  some  reason  seemed  to  resent 
their  looking  at  me,  for  as  soon  as  he  noticed  it 
he  gave  a  rough  order  in  the  native  tongue  that 
made  them  all  look  hurriedly  in  another  direction. 

I  told  the  postmaster  that  we  had  invaded  his 
sanctum,  but  he  was  quite  charming  about  it, 
and  at  once  bestowed  upon  us  the  freedom  of 


Despair  Calls  209 

the  post-office.     He  said  we  could  even  use  the 
postage  stamps  if  they  were  of  any  use  to  us. 

Later  Mrs.  Marriott  and  I  returned  to  our 
lettery  retreat.  When  we  were  at  last  tucked 
in  under  our  rugs  with  the  candle  out  I  asked  her 
to  give  me  her  advice  about  what  I  should  do 
next  day. 

"But  I  don't  understand,  quite,"  she  said. 
"Aren't  you  staying  with  the  Salisbury  ladies?" 

"I  was,"  said  I.  "Mrs.  Valetta  is  supposed 
to  be  chaperoning  me  in  the  absence  of  my  sister- 
in-law,  but  she  has  thrown  up  the  position. " 

"But — what  have — what  could  you  have  done 
to  offend  her?" 

"She  has  offended  me.11 

"But — can't  it  be  patched  up?  Can't  you 
overlook  her  offences?  I  don't  see  how  a  young 
girl  like  you  can  live  alone  here. " 

"I  'm  quite  willing  to  patch  up, "  said  I.  "She 
and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  and  Miss  Cleeve 
were  all  very  rude  to  me,  but — because  of  certain 
circumstances  I  can  almost  forgive  them.  How- 
ever, I  'm  afraid  they  mean  to  declare  war." 

"Well,  but — forgive  me  for  asking — what  could 
you  have  done?" 

"Weren't  you  out  seeing  the  patrol  go  off 
to-night?"  I  ventured. 

"No!"  she  said  in  an  abrupt  kind  of  way,  and 
I  remembered  then  that  I  had  not  seen  her  in 
the   crowd.     She   had   of   course   said   good-bye 
to  her  husband  at  home. 
14 


2io  The  Claw 

"I  hardly  know  any  of  the  men  here,"  she 
presently  continued,  "except  Major  Kinsella, 
and  he  came  in  during  the  afternoon  to  say 
good-bye.  I  thought  it  particularly  nice  of 
him  to  remember  me — but  then  he  is  always 
kind." 

"It  is  about  Major  Kinsella  that  all  the  trouble 
is, "  I  said  in  a  low  voice.  I  thought  I  had  better 
tell  her  the  real  story  instead  of  letting  her  hear 
an  embroidered  version  from  some  one  else.  She 
was  silent. 

"Anthony  Kinsella  and  I  love  each  other,"  I 
said.  ' '  Before  he  rode  away  I  kissed  him  good-bye 
before  every  one," — I  could  not  go  on.  The 
thought  of  that  wonderful  moment,  and  then, 
the  sadness  and  bitterness  of  losing  my  lover 
overwhelmed  me;  my  voice  trembled  and  broke. 
A  thin  nervous  hand  grasped  mine  and  held  it 
tightly  under  the  rugs.  Yet  her  voice  sounded 
doubtful  when  she  spoke. 

"He  is  a  splendid  fellow — any  girl  would  be 
proud  and  happy  to  get  him;  but  is  n't  he — ?  I 
seem  to  have  heard  somewhere  that  he  is " 

"Oh,  don't!"  I  cried.  "Don't!  I'm  sick  of 
hearing  it.  That  is  what  they  all  say.  That  is 
my  offence  against  the  manners  and  morals  of 
this  place — kissing  a  married  man — "  My 
hand  was  suddenly  loosed  and  I  could  feel  her 
draw  away  from  me  in  the  darkness.  "But 
I  don't  believe  it  for  one  moment!"  I  cried 
almost  violently.  "And  I  refuse  to  let  these 


Despair  Calls  211 

odious  people  poison  my  heart  with  their  lies.  I 
know  he  is  a  free  man.  He  is  incapable  of  lying. " 

"Oh!"  she  said  quickly  and  warmly,  "if  he 
told  you  he  is  free  it  is  surely  true.  I  do  not 
believe  either  that  he  would  lie."  She  took  my 
hand  again  and  squeezed  it. 

"He  did  not  tell  me  in  words,"  I  said.  "But 
his  eyes  could  not  lie  to  me.  Oh,  Mrs.  Marriott, 
he  has  such  brave  true  eyes — 

"I  know — "  she  began,  and  then  fell  silent 
again. 

"Ah!  you  are  like  the  rest, "  I  burst  out  bitterly, 
throwing  her  hand  away  from  me,  "ready  to 
believe  evil  of  a  man  whom  you  admit  you 
have  never  known  to  be  anything  but  kind  and 
generous." 

"Don't  say  that — it  is  not  that  I  wish  to  be- 
lieve evil,  but  I  know  men — a  little,  and  my 
experience  is  that  the  best  of  them  are  terribly 
weak — and  you  are  a  very  lovely  girl.  It  is 
not  impossible  to  think  that  he  may  have  lost 
his  head " 

"No,  no,  no!"  I  cried,  "it  is  not  so.  I  tell  you 
I  saw  his  eyes  when  he  said  good-bye  to  me.  I 
will  believe  them  against  all  the  world." 

I  felt  that  I  had  convinced  her,  too,  even  against 
her  will — that  was  something.  She  never  again 
chilled  me  with  unbelief  in  my  man. 

But  as  to  getting  any  advice  out  of  her  about 
my  immediate  course  of  action — it  was  simply 
hopeless.  The  poor  woman's  unhappiness  seemed 


212  The  Claw 

to  have  dimmed  her  perception  of  what  was  going 
on  round  her  in  a  place  where  she  had  lived 
for  eight  months.  She  knew  of  no  place  where 
I  could  stay.  Did  not  even  know  if  there  were 
any  hotels,  or  how  many!  I  had  to  give  her  up 
as  a  guide  and  preceptor;  but  I  was  glad  of  the 
nervous  pressure  of  her  thin  hand  again  before 
we  slept,  and  something  she  said  left  my  heart 
thrilling  with  happiness  even  while  it  ached  for 
her. 

"The  men  up  here  are  all  kind — but  Major 
Kinsella's  kindness  to  me  has  been  so  different 
—there  has  never  been  any  pity  in  it — you  don't 
know  what  that  has  meant  to  me — and  his  way 
with  Rupert!  He  treats  him  as  though  he  is 
still —  Oh!  perhaps  you  can  understand?" 

"As  though  he  is  still  a  man!" — that  is  what 
she  would  have  said  but  her  lips  would  not  say 
it. 

Poor  soul!  hers  was  the  fag-end  of  a  romance 
indeed ! 


CHAPTER   X 

CHARITY  CALLS 

"To  know  anything  about  one's  self  one  must  know  all  about 
others. " 

THE  big  main  doors  of  the  post-office  were 
thrown  open  at  an  early  hour  of  morning 
but  the  inmates  of  laager  did  not  rise  with 
the  lark.  They  trickled  forth  at  intervals,  ac- 
cording to  their  use  in  life  and  the  duties  to 
be  performed  by  them.  When  I  came  out  on 
the  verandah  facing  the  barricades  I  found  it 
strewn  with  the  sleeping  forms  of  men. 

I  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  landscape 
glowing  and  scintillating  under  the  sparkling 
morning  sunlight.  Across  the  veldt  a  small 
body  of  horsemen  came  cantering  towards  the 
town;  the  men  who  had  been  out  all  night  on 
picket  duty. 

I  had  slipped  away  from  Mrs.  Marriott,  for 
having  long  ago  heard  how  sensitive  she  was  about 
her  tiny,  barely-furnished  hut,  I  did  not  want 
to  cause  her  the  embarrassment  of  offering  to 
share  it  with  me.  I  was  looking  at  the  mounting 

213 


214  The  Claw 

of  one  of  the  big  guns  and  pondering  the  question 
of  which  hotel  I  should  try,  when  Mrs.  Valetta 
swept  past,  her  face  coldly  averted,  and  just  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  an  intention  to  hold  her 
skirt  away  from  me.  I  flushed,  then  smiled 
disdainfully  at  the  uplifted  nose  of  Anna  Cleeve 
who  followed  in  her  wake.  Neither  of  them  spoke 
a  word.  I  had  a  childish  inclination  to  whistle 
a  tune  just  to  show  them  I  did  n't  care  a  button, 
but  I  conquered  it,  and  started  instead  to  pick 
my  way  through  the  wet  grassy  paths  towards 
the  Imperial  Hotel — I  had  suddenly  remembered 
that  Hendricks  had  said  the  Imperial  was  kept 
by  a  woman. 

Half-way  across  the  township  I  was  caught 
up  by  the  doctor,  and  when  I  told  him  where 
I  was  bound  for  he  very  agreeably  offered  to 
escort  me.  But  he  peered  at  me  curiously  as  if 
to  know  the  reason  of  this  odd  departure.  Ar- 
rived at  the  long,  galvanised-iron  building  which 
glared  and  blinked  in  the  morning  sun,  he  left 
me  in  the  verandah  with  the  assurance  that  he 
would  send  Mrs.  Baynes  out  to  me.  A  few  minutes 
later  I  made  the  discovery  that  Mrs.  Baynes  was 
the  dropsical  duchess  with  whom  I  had  shared  a 
staring  acquaintance  the  night  before.  She  im- 
mediately resumed  her  observations,  but  she  was 
professionally  civil  and  obsequious  until  she 
found  that  I  wished  to  engage  a  room;  her  manner 
then  underwent  a  series  of  rapid  changes — from 
curiosity  to  amazement,  to  hauteur,  to  familiar- 


Charity  Calls  215 

ity.  She  began  to  "my  dear"  me!  I  swallowed 
my  indignation  as  best  I  might  and  assumed  not 
to  notice  her  impertinence,  for  I  was  beginning 
to  fear  that  she  would  not  take  me  in  and  there 
would  be  nothing  for  me  but  Swears's. 

"Aoah!"  she  said  at  last.  (She  had  a  pe- 
culiarly irritating  way  of  pronouncing  "oh!") 
"Aoah!  I  thought  you  were  staying  with  Mrs. 
Valetta  and  all  that  swagger  lot." 

She  examined  me  intently  from  my  hat  to 
my  shoes  as  though  she  had  not  done  the  same 
thing  thoroughly  the  night  before. 

"Have  you  no  rooms  to  let?"  I  repeated 
politely. 

"Well— I  don't  know— it  depends."  She 
paused,  tapping  some  dark  blue  teeth  reflec- 
tively with  her  finger-nail  whilst  apparently 
counting  the  number  of  tucks  in  my  skirt.  She 
then  closely  inspected  the  gathers  round  my 
waist,  and  my  belt-buckle. 

"What  does  it  depend  upon?"  I  asked  with 
deadly  calm. 

"Aoah!  a  lot  of  things."  She  threw  her  head 
sideways  revealing  a  generous  splendour  of  double 
chin,  and  shouted  over  her  shoulder  in  a  tre- 
mendous voice.  "Fanny!  Come  yerea  minit. " 

Fanny  arriving  was  revealed  as  the  tall  and 
Junoesque  girl  with  the  swishing  petticoat  and 
the  Wellington  nose. 

"This  lady  wants  a  room.  What  do  you 
think,  Fan?" 


216  The  Claw 

Fanny  gazed  at  me  in  a  queenly  way  over  her 
military  nose;  but  when  she  proceeded  to 
count  the  tucks  in  my  skirt  and  examine  my 
belt-buckle  I  felt  fury  rising  in  me  like  a  tidal 
wave. 

"Madam!"  I  said,  freezing  the  landlady  with 
my  eyes.  "Will  you  be  good  enough  to  answer 
my  question  definitely?  Can  I  or  can  I  not 
engage  a  room  in  this  hotel — and  have  my  meals 
served  to  me  there?" 

"Aoah!  meals  served  in  bedroom!  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

I  turned  away  hot  with  wrath  and  met  the  eyes 
of  Colonel  Blow  and  Maurice  Stair  who  had  just 
come  round  the  corner  of  the  hotel  and  entered 
the  verandah.  They  looked  amazed  at  finding 
me  there,  so  I  explained  hastily  and  haughtily 
to  the  former  whilst  Mr.  Stair  and  the  doctor 
listened  frankly,  and  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Baynes 
and  "Fanny"  seared  the  back  of  my  frock  and 
hat.  Afterwards  Colonel  Blow  said  quietly  and 
emphatically : 

"Of  course  you  have  a  room  for  this  lady,  Mrs. 
Baynes — the  best  in  the  house.  You  can  put 
me  anywhere  you  like."  He  added  deliberately, 
"It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  take  Miss  Saurin  to 
her  room  at  once  and  give  her  some  breakfast. " 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  "  I-am-the-Com- 
mandant-and-mean-to-be-obeyed "  tone  of  his 
voice. 

He  was  probably  Mrs.  Baynes's  best  boarder 


Charity  Calls  217 

in  any  case.  Without  a  word  she  led  the  way, 
while  "Fanny"  dwindled  from  the  scene  like 
a  bad  dream.  We  walked  through  the  dining- 
room,  bare  of  anything  but  a  long  table  and  some 
dissipated-looking  chairs,  down  a  passage,  and 
into  a  back  verandah  which  had  a  row  of  doors 
facing  the  sunrise.  At  the  third  door  she  stopped 
and  flung  it  wide : 

' '  There  you  are ! "  she  snapped.  "  Four  pounds 
a  week  with  board — paid  in  advance.  Take  it 
or  leave  it — /  don't  care. " 

She  flounced  away  and  left  me.  I  went  in  and 
gazed  about  me.  I  had  never  been  in  a  more 
hopelessly  impossible  room  in  my  life. 


One  night  just  as  we  were  straggling  into 
laager,  the  look-out  reported  a  small  party  of 
persons  on  the  horizon,  riding  very  slowly  towards 
the  town.  It  was  not  time  for  a  change  of  pickets, 
neither  could  it  be  a  patrol  returning  for  there 
was  no  patrol  out.  When  these  two  facts  were 
thoroughly  digested  every  one  pranced  for  their 
field  glasses,  and  the  laager  verandah  became 
crowded  with  very  busy  people  full  of  curiosity 
and  excitement  at  the  thought  of  news  from  the 
front.  Later,  as  the  little  group  came  nearer 
to  us  out  of  the  glamour  of  evening  shadows  it  was 
seen  to  consist  of  three  persons,  and  presently 
there  materialised  under  our  watching  eyes  two 
battered-looking  troopers,  coatless  and  (of  course) 


218  The  Claw 

extremely  dirty,  riding  one  on  each  side  of  a 
dandified  slim  young  man  in  a  suit  of  khaki 
of  sulphurous  shade  but  of  the  most  precise  and 
fashionable  cut.  His  putties  were  put  on  beau- 
tifully: not  a  false  fold  or  a  bad  line  anywhere. 
His  rifle-fittings  shone  brightly  in  the  sunset 
glow,  and  the  bandolier  slung  with  debonair 
carelessness  across  his  breast  had  not  a  cartridge 
missing ! 

All  these  details  were  noted  and  beheld  with 
breathless  interest  before  we  could  even  see  the 
face  of  this  mysterious  Brummel  in  khaki,  for 
his  police  hat — the  only  inartistic  thing  about 
him — was  pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes.  I 
think  I  was  the  first  to  see  the  glint  of  an  amazing 
shade  of  golden  hair,  and  the  line  of  a  defiant 
mouth.  Some  notion  of  the  truth  dawned  upon 
me  then  and  a  moment  after  every  one  knew. 
Colonel  Blow  stepped  forward  and  spoke  to  the 
troopers,  and  one  of  them,  who  was  a  sergeant, 
answered  him  briefly  and  to  the  point : 

"The  C.  O.  ordered  me  to  escort  this  lady  back 
to  Fort  George,  sir." 

At  this  the  slouch  hat  was  pushed  back,  and 
Mrs.  Rookwood's  murky  eyes  stared  defiantly 
at  us  all.  Then  her  pretty  mirthless  laugh  rang 
out. 

"It  was  all  that  brute  Anthony  Kinsella's 
fault,"  she  said,  addressing  herself  exclusively 
to  the  Commandant.  "When  he  joined  the 
others  and  found  me  in  his  troop  with  George 


Charity  Calls  219 

he  immediately  told  the  Doctor  and  had  me 
sent  back.  Was  n't  it  horrid  of  him,  Colonel? 
I  'm  sure  I  should  have  made  as  good  a  soldier 
as  any  one  else  of  them.  I  'm  a  first-class 
shot.  You  have  said  so  yourself  now,  have  n't 
you?" 

She  was  trying  to  carry  her  defeat  off  bravely 
under  the  remorseless  stare  of  a  number  of  femi- 
nine eyes.  Her  own  were  so  bright  that  it  was 
plain  she  was  on  the  verge  of  tears,  and  as  she 
left  off  speaking  her  mouth  began  to  quiver. 
She  had  n't  an  atom  of  make-up  on  and  looked 
almost  middle-aged,  but  nevertheless  extremely 
handsome.  It  was  a  difficult  moment  but  Colonel 
Blow  was  true  blue,  and  knew  the  right  thing 
to  do.  He  laughed  cheerily  and  went  forward 
to  help  her  from  her  saddle. 

"Well,  you've  had  quite  an  adventure,  Mrs. 
Rookwood!  But  George  will  probably  be  put 
in  the  cells  when  he  comes  back  for  aiding  and 
abetting  you. " 

"He  didn't,"  she  said,  speaking  more  natur- 
ally. "I  did  it  all  on  my  own,  but  he  was  awfully 
glad  to  see  me  when  I  turned  up." 

"Where  did  you  leave  them,  Sergeant?" 

"About  thirty  miles  from  Sigala,  sir.  Major 
Kinsella  knew  the  way  back  was  safe  as  he  had 
just  come  along  it  and  found  it  perfectly  clear. 
But  we  had  to  ride  hard. " 

"Yes;  you  must  all  be  fagged  out.  Mrs. 
Rookwood,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  get  to 


22O  The  Claw 

bed  at  once.  But  finding  a  bed  for  you  is  another 
matter." 

He  turned  round  in  a  half -appealing  way  to  the 
group  of  women  who  had  been  standing  behind 
him,  but  at  the  very  suspicion  of  being  asked  to 
do  anything  for  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  Rookwood 
almost  every  skirt  disappeared  like  magic.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen  but  the  spiteful  Dutch  woman  and  me,  the 
tabooed  of  all  tabooees. 

"Miss  Saurin" — he  began  in  a  persuasive 
voice. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  smiling  at  his  distress, 
"I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  anything  I  can  for 
Mrs.  Rookwood  if  she  will  let  me.  I  'm  afraid 
all  the  cosiest  corners  are  gone,  though,"  I  said 
to  her,  "and  nothing  but  desks  and  mail-bags 
left  to  sleep  on.  But  you  're  welcome  to  share 
all  we  Ve  got — and  I  'm  sure  Mrs.  Marriott  will 
say  so  too." 

At  this  casual  information  she  for  some  occult 
reason  burst  into  tears,  and  stood  there  sobbing 
with  her  hands  over  her  face.  Poor  Colonel 
Blow  stared  at  her  in  dismay. 

"She's  tired,"  I  said,  "and  hungry,  too,  I 
expect.  Come  along,  Mrs.  Rookwood.  I  '11  serve 
you  up  one  of  my  famous  French  suppers  before 
you  go  to  bed.  Colonel,  will  you  have  the  kit 
from  her  horse  sent  in,  please?" 

I  put  my  arm  round  the  slim  trim  khaki  waist, 
and  half  led,  half  dragged  her  to  the  den  behind 


Charity  Calls  221 

the  post-office  counter.  Mrs.  Marriott  was  there 
already  reading  a  book  by  candle-light,  and  she 
looked  absolutely  aghast  at  seeing  me  with  my 
arm  round  a  man's  waist,  for  with  her  usual  knack 
of  missing  any  excitement  that  was  going  on  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  event  that  had  just  taken 
place.  From  her  nervous,  horrified  expression  she 
evidently  concluded  that  this  was  a  fresh  escapade 
on  my  part  and  that  I  was  hopelessly  incorrigible. 
When  I  explained  the  situation  she  was  so  much 
relieved  that  she  did  not  show  as  I  feared  any 
coolness  to  the  luckless  Mrs.  Rookwood;  but 
instead  began  in  her  absent-minded  fashion 
to  move  her  things  so  that  there  would  be  more 
room  for  the  latter  who  was  forlornly  drying  her 
tears. 

"We  Ve  only  one  small  mattress,  that  is  stuffed 
with  nails, "  I  said  apologetically. 

"  I  Ve  slept  on  the  ground  ever  since  I  left  here, 
you  know — and  been  fearfully  cold  at  night,  too. 
I  don't  mind  anything  now.  It  is  awfully  good  of 
you  to  bother  with  me  at  all." 

She  looked  as  if  she  was  going  to  howl  again. 

"Nonsense!"  I  said  briskly.  "Do  you  like 
coffee  &  la  turc? — because  I  'm  just  going  to  make 
some.  It  picks  you  up  like  a  balloon.  You  '11 
feel  like  a  roaring  lion  afterwards."  She  began 
to  smile.  "And  a  Welsh  rarebit, "  I  beguiled  her. 
"Oh,  don't  say  you  are  one  of  those  cowards  who 
dare  n't  eat  Welsh  rarebits  for  fear  of  what  dreams 
may  come." 


222  The  Claw 

"No;  I  love  them."  I  had  her  laughing  at 
last.  "And  I  'm  so  hungry,  Miss  Saurin. " 

"Well!  there  will  be  Welsh  rarebit  and  some 
cold  Mashona  hen  I  stole  from  the  hotel — and 
let  me  see.  Where  is  the  box  of  sharks  you  had, 
Mrs.  Marriott?" 

She  produced  the  sardines,  also  two  boiled 
eggs  and  a  lettuce.  It  had  become  our  pleasant 
custom  to  ask  either  Colonel  Blow  or  Mr.  Stair 
or  Mr.  Bleksley  to  come  in  to  supper  before  the 
night  watches  began.  Hence  these  luxurious 
stores. 

"Good,"  I  said.  "That  will  provide  for  three 
courses;  chicken  mayonnaise,  Welsh  rarebit,  and 
a  sardine  savoury.  Lie  down  and  rest,  Mrs. 
Rookwood,  while  we  prepare  supper." 

She  did  as  I  told  her  without  a  word,  and  Mrs. 
Marriott  and  I  busied  ourselves  with  the  post- 
master's oil-stove  and  a  pan  and  pot  I  had  secured 
from  Hunloke  and  Dennison's.  Mrs.  Marriott 
actually  rose  to  the  point  of  going  out  to  the 
yard-fire  by  herself  to  make  three  slices  of  toast 
for  the  savoury. 

"She's  coming  along,"  I  boasted  to  Mrs. 
Rookwood.  "The  first  few  nights  she  was  in 
laager  she  had  no  more  initiative  than  a  dead 
duck,  but  she 's  getting  quite  bright  now.  I 
really  believe  it  is  doing  her  good  to  come  into 
laager  and  see  society." 

"Your  society  would  do  any  one  good,"  re- 
marked my  companion  so  warmly  that  I  really 


Charity  Calls  223 

felt  she  was  sincere  and  I  coloured  all  over  with 
pleasure,  for  I  always  think  a  compliment  from 
a  woman  is  worth  half-a-dozen  from  a  man.  I 
still  had  it  in  my  heart  against  her  that  she  had 
called  my  Anthony  a  brute,  but  her  next  words 
dissolved  all  my  resentment  and  gave  her  my 
gratitude  for  ever. 

"  I  never  met  any  one  more  kind  and  generous — 
except  Anthony  Kinsella.  I  called  him  a  brute 
this  evening  but  that  was  only  to  cover  my 
embarrassment  and  anger  with  all  those  cats  star- 
ing at  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  perfectly 
sweet  to  me  and  at  no  one  else's  command  in 
the  whole  of  this  country — Mr.  Rhodes  or  Dr. 
Jim  or  an  Archangel — would  I  have  left  George 
and  come  back  here  to  be  laughed  at.  Not  that 
you  laughed — and  I  11  never  forget  how  good 
you  Ve  been,  and  Mrs.  Marriott  too.  And  oh, 
Miss  Saurin,  you  should  see  her  husband.  You 
would  n't  know  him,  he  has  brightened  and 
changed  so  much.  He  looks  like  a  man  again. " 

"Oh,  you  must  tell  her,"  I  said.  "Tell  her 
as  soon  as  she  comes  in.  Did  he  speak  to 
you?" 

"Yes,  they  were  all  crowding  round  my  horse 
cheering  me  at  the  last.  I  must  tell  you  that 
though  the  Doctor  was  very  cross  with  me,  both 
he  and  Major  Kinsella  said  things  that  made 
every  one  think  I  was  a  very  brave  woman  indeed, 
instead  of  a  silly  little  fool  who  thought  she  was 
doing  something  rather  clever  and  found  out 


224  The  Claw 

that  she  was  simply  making  extra  difficulties 
for  the  men.  Of  course  I  know  it  disorganised 
things  awfully — and  then  to  have  to  send 
off  two  good  men  with  me — and  how  they 
hated  coming,  poor  fellows!  Oh,  I  was  awfully 
ashamed  of  myself,  but  I  can  assure  you  Tony 
Kinsella  had  every  one  of  them  cheering  and 
kissing  my  hands  as  though  I  were  a  Joan  of  Arc 
— and  all  the  time  my  heart  was  a  wretched 
little  speck  of  misery  in  me." 

She  paused,  staring  wretchedly  at  the  ceiling 
with  her  lovely  murky  eyes,  and  considering 
God  knows  what  sad  pages  of  her  unhappy  his- 
tory. I  was  sorry  for  her,  but  my  heart  was 
glowing  with  joy  to  have  heard  tidings  of  the  man 
I  loved,  and  I  could  not  be  unhappy. 

"Tell  me  about  Mrs.  Marriott's  husband,"  I 
presently  said,  when  I  could  drag  my  thoughts 
away  from  Anthony. 

"He  was  one  of  the  last  to  take  my  hand  and 
wish  me  good-bye  and  good-luck,  and  he  said, 
'When  you  see  my  wife,  Mrs.  Rookwood,  will 
you  tell  her  that  I  am  feeling  like  another  man, 
and  give  her — '  That  was  all,  but  he  said  it 
with  such  intensity  that  I  'm  sure  he  meant  her 
to  understand  that  he  is  another  man,  and  he 
must  have  overcome  his  dreadful  habit  to  a  great 
extent  to  look  as  he  does — quite  bright-eyed  and 
holding  himself  alert.  I  am  sure  that  he  was 
going  to  say  'Give  her  my  love,'  but  a  sudden 
shyness  came  over  him  in  front  of  all  those  men, 


Charity  Calls  225 

knowing,  too,  that  every  one  knew  how  sad  it 
had  been  for  her. " 

"You  must  tell  her, "  I  said  swiftly,  for  I  heard 
her  coming  along  the  verandah.  "Tell  her 
everything,  just  as  you  've  told  me,  and  put  in 
the  love  too — of  course  he  meant  to  send  it. 
You  '11  be  doing  a  fine  action,  Mrs.  Rookwood. 
That  woman  is  half  dead  with  despair." 

At  this  point  we  nimbly  turned  the  conversation 
to  the  subject  of  supper,  and  having  examined 
the  toast  which  Mrs.  Marriott  held  out  for  my 
approval,  I  a  few  minutes  later  made  it  my 
business  to  go  in  turn  to  the  yard-fire. 

As  I  went  along  the  side  verandah,  kettle  in 
hand,  I  passed  the  window  of  the  office  in  which 
Mrs.  Valetta  and  her  party  had  their  quarters. 
The  room  was  brightly  lighted  with  the  N.  C.'s 
rose-red  lamp,  round  which  a  dozen  woolly  moths 
were  buzzing,  seeking  destruction.  The  whole 
party  was  seated  at  the  table  playing  cards.  And 
Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  was  staring  at  her 
husband  with  a  look  of  positive  hatred  in  her 
eyes. 

"I  don't  cheat,"  she  was  furiously  asserting. 

"Yes,  you  do;  you  always  do;  you  think  it 's 
funny.  And  all  the  time  everybody  else  is 
hating  you  for  it, "  responded  the  warlike  Monty 
amiably.  Mrs.  Valetta  and  Miss  Cleeve 
exchanged  glances  of  the  utmost  boredom  and 
disgust.  Indeed,  if  there  is  anything  more 

desperate  in  the  way  of  ennui  than  to  listen  to 
is 


226  The  Claw 

a  husband  and  wife  quarrelling  over  cards,  I 
don't  know  it. 

When  I  got  back  to  our  peaceful  little  den  I  felt 
inclined  to  decorate  Mrs.  Rookwood  with  a  gold 
medal  with  "Hurrah"  on  it  in  diamonds.  Mrs. 
Marriott  had  turned  into  another  woman.  To 
look  at  her  one  could  almost  believe  that  it  was 
she  who  was  emancipating  herself  from  the  drug 
habit.  All  her  droopiness  had  gone.  She  looked 
like  a  flower  upon  which  dew  had  fallen  after  long 
drought.  She  was  not  middle-aged  any  more. 
The  Frenchman  who  wrote  that  age  never  comes 
to  a  woman  who  is  loved,  knew  something  about 
women  and  life ! 

My  bed  was  not  very  comfortable  that  night, 
but  I  wrapped  myself  to  sleep  in  a  new  dream  of 
joy  in  my  Anthony,  who  by  his  action  in  taking 
Dr.  Marriott  in  the  face  of  all  opposition  had 
brought  back  fresh  hope  to  two  souls  that  had 
seemed  doomed  to  defeat  and  despair. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CHILDREN  CALL 

"Linger  longer,  laager, 
Linger  longer,  loo. 
If  we  have  no  laager, 
What  will  Col.  Blow  do? 

Stair  will  ne'er  desert  him, 

'Monty'  will  be  true. 
Then  linger  longer,  laager, 

Linger  longer,  loo." 

THERE  followed  many  blank  days.  Week  after 
week  went  by  without  news  of  any  kind 
coming  in.  We  only  knew  that  our  men  were 
all  together  now,  and  marching  on  to  Mata- 
beleland.  The  question  with  us  was  to  kill  time 
and  fearsome  thought,  and  to  kill  time  was  a 
nearly  impossible  thing  to  do.  Amusements  there 
were  none,  of  course,  and  occupations  had  to  be 
invented.  An  interest  in  life  had  to  be  born  within, 
for  in  the  external  life  of  the  town  nothing  hap- 
pened to  excite  interest.  The  men,  it  is  true,  were 
kept  always  on  the  qui  vive  by  the  indefatigable 
Commandant,  and  when  they  were  not  drilling 

227 


228  The  Claw 

on  the  square  or  practising  with  the  Hotchkiss  they 
were  away  on  patrol  and  picket  duty.  Even  if 
they  had  not  been  so  busy  they  were  not  a  very 
interesting  crowd ;  I  imagine  the  men  left  behind 
to  look  after  the  women  seldom  are.  They  may 
be  the  real  heroes;  but  they  don't  look  like  it;  and 
I  don't  fancy  they  feel  like  it.  The  cause  of  their 
being  left  behind  in  the  first  place  is  generally 
physical  unfitness  or  some  domestic  or  official 
reason  that  puts  them  out  of  conceit  with  them- 
selves, and  out  of  love  with  life  in  general.  Even 
a  man  like  Colonel  Blow,  left  in  charge  of  a  town 
in  a  position  of  great  responsibility  and  trust, 
grew  morose  and  surly,  thinking  of  the  excitement 
he  was  missing  at  the  front  and  the  fighting  he  was 
hopelessly  out  of.  It  was  said  that  on  its  being 
decided  that  he  was  to  be  left  behind  he  spent  a 
whole  day  wiring  appeals  to  Dr.  Jim  and  Mr. 
Rhodes,  and  in  the  intervals  walking  round  and 
round  his  office  shouting  bad  words  about  "a  lot 
of  women  and  children  any  one  could  look  after!" 
Not  very  flattering  to  the  women  and  children, 
of  course,  but  one  could  quite  understand  the  at- 
titude of  mind  and  believe  that  in  the  same  case 
one  would  say  the  same  thing.  There  must  be 
something  gloriously  exciting  in  riding  through 
starry  nights  and  sunlit  days  to  fight  for  your 
country  and  your  rights.  There  is  nothing  at  all 
glorious  in  sitting  safe  and  snug  at  home  killing 
time  until  good  news  comes  in. 

I  was  very  sorry  for  pale,  handsome  Maurice 


The  Children  Call  229 

Stair  with  his  crippled  arm.  He  could  not  even 
go  out  on  patrol  or  picket  duty,  because  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  carry  a  gun.  He  always 
sought  me  when  he  had  a  spare  half -hour,  and 
afterwards  I  used  to  feel  quite  exhausted  from  the 
prolonged  effort  of  trying  to  cheer  him  up.  It  was 
like  trying  to  pull  a  heavy  bucket  up  a  well  and 
never  quite  succeeding  in  getting  it  to  the  top. 
He  often  said: 

"Thank  God  for  you,  anyway;  the  only  sound, 
sweet  spot  in  the  rottenest  apple  I  've  ever  put  my 
teeth  into." 

I  would  laugh  at  this  exaggeration  of  my  useful- 
ness in  trying  to  jeer  him  out  of  the  blues:  but  I 
felt  I  deserved  some  praise  for  such  work. 

"Absurd!  You  know  very  well  you  adore  this 
country,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  men,  and  would 
never  be  happy  in  a  'boiled'  shirt  again. " 

"Oh,  would  n't  I?  Try  me!  If  it  were  not  for 
one  person  I  would  leave  Fort  George  to-day  and 
show  Africa  the  cleanest  pair  of  heels  she  ever 
saw  step  on  to  a  Cape  liner." 

He  looked  at  me  so  embarrassingly  on  this 
occasion  that  I  did  not  care  to  ask  him  who  the 
person  was.  I  said: 

"Yes,  and  you  would  be  back  within  a  year, 
trying  to  sneak  in  by  the  East  Coast  route,  hoping 
no  one  would  notice  you  'd  been  away." 

But  he  would  deny  the  Witch  unceasingly,  say- 
ing that  she  had  no  lure  for  him — all  because  he 
was  longing  to  be  in  the  thick  of  things  with  the 


230  The  Claw 

other  men,  and  because  of  the  tormenting  thought 
that  he  was  staying  behind  like  a  woman  while 
history  was  being  made  within  a  few  hundred 
miles. 

Certainly  it  was  hard  on  a  high-spirited  boy, 
ambitious,  with  fighting  blood  in  his  veins.  All 
his  people  had  been  soldiers  for  generations,  he 
told  me,  but  for  some  reason  his  uncle  had  not 
wished  him  to  enter  the  army,  and  so  he  had 
sought  life  in  places  where  at  least  there  were 
always  chances  of  irregular  fighting.  And  now 
that  a  chance  had  come  along — here  he  was!  It 
really  was  bad  luck,  and  I  comforted  him  as  best 
I  might.  But  I  had  my  own  troubles  to  bear. 

The  Salisbury  women  made  things  as  difficult 
as  they  could  for  me.  Mrs.  Valetta  and  Miss 
Cleeve  began  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Fort  George  women,  and  the  result  became 
directly  apparent  to  my  mental  skin,  always  ex- 
tremely susceptible  to  change  of  atmosphere. 
Where  I  had  before  met  pleasant  southerly 
breezes  I  now  encountered  chilly  winds  and 
frost. 

At  first  I  felt  rather  bitterly  about  it,  and  in- 
clined to  resent  this  injustice  on  the  part  of  the 
domesticated  little  Fort  George  bevy.  But  I 
lived  that  mood  down.  Having  plenty  of  leisure 
and  solitude  in  which  to  think  things  out,  those 
first  few  weeks  I  got  round  in  time  to  their  point  of 
view,  and  saw  the  situation  through  their  eyes. 
From  what  they  had  been  told  by  my  recent 


The  Children  Call  231 

chaperon  and  had  observed  for  themselves  on  the 
night  of  Anthony's  departure,  they  were  bound 
to  suppose  that  I  was,  to  put  it  in  the  mildest 
way,  lax  about  things  conventional ;  and  of  course 
a  woman  who  is  that  must  expect  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  sort  of  pirate,  and  the  direct  enemy  of 
gentle,  simple-hearted  women  who  are  devoting 
their  lives  to  the  task  of  being  good  wives  and 
mothers. 

In  the  homes  of  such  women,  who  by  quiet, 
ceaseless,  uncomplaining  toil  and  task  were  form- 
ing the  backbone  of  the  country  in  which  they 
lived,  patriotism  is  born,  and  fine  ideals,  and  the 
love  of  everything  that  is  "strong  and  quiet  like 
the  hills."  What  right  had  I  to  hate  them  if, 
hearing  that  I  was  a  traitor  to  their  cause,  they 
looked  sideways  at  me?  Naturally,  if  they  be- 
lieved it  true  that  I  loved  a  married  man  and 
gloried  in  it,  they  saw  in  me  a  conspirator  against 
their  own  peace  and  happiness.  What  was  to 
save  their  own  husbands  from  my  lures  and  wiles 
when  they  came  back?  Perhaps  that  was  how 
they  looked  at  it. 

It  was  only  by  the  aid  of  these  reflections  and 
my  sure  conviction  of  being  in  the  right  that  I 
freed  myself  from  bitterness  against  them.  Later 
I  grew  quite  tolerant ;  but  it  was  some  time  before 
I  could  begin  to  think  of  offering  my  good  gold  for 
such  silver  as  they  grudged  me.  However,  as 
the  blank  days  went  by  and  Anthony's  words  and 
wishes  came  to  be  more  than  ever  the  only  things 


232  The  Claw 

in  my  world,  I  began  to  glance  about  me  with 
hungry  eyes  for  a  little  of  the  silver  they  were  so 
greedy  about.  I  had  not  far  to  look,  once  my 
eyes  were  opened.  Everywhere  about  me  were 
children ;  restless,  constrained,  confined,  and  hope- 
lessly bored  children.  Some  one  once  said  (I 
think  it  was  Kipling,  who  knows  all  about  children 
as  well  as  about  everything  else  under  the  sun) 
that  grown-up  people  do  not  always  realise  that 
boredom  to  children  means  acute  and  active 
misery. 

Well,  the  Fort  George  children  were  bored,  and 
acutely,  actively  miserable.  They  had  nowhere 
to  go  and  nothing  to  do.  Their  favourite  haunt, 
a  line  of  little  low  kopjes  just  outside  the  town, 
was  out  of  bounds  and  forbidden.  The  shallow 
river  with  its  pools  and  flat  rocks  and  silver- 
sanded  bottom,  the  scene  of  many  old  delights, 
was  likewise  beyond  safe  precincts.  Everything 
was  forbidden  but  to  prowl  about  in  the  small 
town  with  never  a  rock  or  a  tree  to  play  on :  only 
locked  and  silent  huts,  and  their  own  homes  from 
which  they  were  constantly  chased  by  busy 
mothers,  who  in  the  general  dearth  of  servants 
had  all  the  washing  and  cooking  to  do. 

Oh!  the  little  sulky,  dissatisfied  faces  that  I 
met,  not  only  sulky  but  peaked  and  pale;  for 
when  children  do  not  get  exercise  that  interests 
and  amuses  them  they  soon  begin  to  look  un- 
healthy. My  duty  seemed  to  be  plainly  marked 
out  for  me. 


The  Children  Call  233 

I  thanked  Heaven  they  were  mostly  boys.  I 
don't  think  I  could  have  organised  sewing  classes 
and  spelling  bees. 

But  I  love  children  and  therefore  I  know  some- 
thing about  them,  so  I  did  not  go  headlong  into 
the  business,  looking  for  snubs.  Snubs  are  not 
pleasant  fare  at  the  best  of  times,  and  I  think 
children's  snubs  are  the  most  unswallowable ;  they 
are  so  sincere  and  to  the  point.  I  began  my 
campaign  by  loafing  about  idly  every  morning 
just  after  breakfast,  meeting  them  in  the  by- 
paths, and  dropping  a  word  here  and  there  just 
to  shew  that  I  too  was  bored  to  madness.  Grad- 
ually they  recognised  in  me  a  fellow-martyr,  and 
after  a  day  or  two  they  began  to  gravitate  natur- 
ally in  my  direction  as  a  centre  where  they  could 
come  and  record  their  complaints.  I  allowed 
myself  to  be  treated  as  a  sort  of  slot-machine, 
where  any  one  could  come  and  drop  a  serious 
grievance  instead  of  a  penny,  and  sometimes  get 
something  back.  However,  I  did  not  give  much 
back.  Children  distrust  grown-ups  who  give 
too  much,  or  talk  too  much — especially  in  the 
first  critical  stages  of  friendship.  They  prefer  to 
do  all  the  talking  themselves. 

In  time  they  wanted  to  know  what  they  should 
call  me.  I  told  them  "Goldie, "  a  pet  name  of 
mine,  and  somehow  that  clinched  the  matter. 
Afterwards  they  gave  me  their  full  confidence,  and 
I  took  firm  hold  and  immediately  began  to  impose 
upon  it.  The  transition  from  favourite  to  tyrant 


234  The  Claw 

can  be  swift  and  very  simple,  and  I  soon  had  an 
Empire  which  I  ruled  over  like  a  Caesar. 

Games  were  the  order  of  the  day.  First  of  all 
we  took  the  tennis-court  in  hand — the  tennis- 
court  where  I  had  dreamed  bits  of  my  beautiful 
dream  and  which  lay  now  like  a  desolate  and 
accursed  spot  covered  with  dead  leaves,  old 
papers,  and  rubbish !  In  one  day  it  was  swept  and 
garnished,  and  in  two  it  was  rolled  and  marked  to 
a  degree  of  perfection  it  had  never  known  before. 
On  the  third  day  I  divided  the  children  up  into 
quartettes  and  taught  them  tennis  in  batches. 
They  had  never  been  allowed  to  so  much  as  glance 
in  the  direction  of  the  court  before,  it  being  con- 
sidered solely  and  sacredly  the  property  of  the 
grown-ups.  Now  they  bounced  upon  it  like  balls, 
and  yells  of  delight  and  victory  woke  the  dull 
echoes  and  rang  through  the  town.  We  had 
some  glorious  days.  But  to  all  fine  things  an  end 
must  be,  and  just  as  everything  had  been  got  into 
splendid  working  order,  with  two  clubs  formed 
for  the  purpose  of  competition,  a  popular  arrange- 
ment made  for  the  scouting  of  balls,  and  an  enter- 
tainment committee  selected,  down  swooped  the 
grown-ups,  headed  by  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe, 
and  wrested  the  court  away  from  us. 

"Surely  the  only  recreation  in  the  place  is  not 
going  to  be  taken  away  from  us  by  these  brats!" 
was  their  plaintive  cry,  and  in  my  absence  one 
morning,  minding  Mrs.  Marriott  who  was  ill, 
my  little  crowd  was  intimidated  and  dismissed 


The  Children  Call  235 

crestfallen.  Like  all  Irish-Americans  I  have  a 
"drop  of  the  tiger"  in  me,  and  I  fought  for  our 
rights.  But  when  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  went 
round  and  got  the  mothers  on  their  side  I  had  to 
give  in.  It  was  no  use  encouraging  insubordina- 
tion to  mothers ;  that  I  very  well  knew  would  end 
in  my  defeat  as  well  as  the  children's. 

"Oh,  let  them  have  their  old  court,"  I  said. 
"Soldiering  is  ever  so  much  greater  fun.  But  we 
must  make  a  parade  ground  first,  or  Colonel  Blow 
will  be  mad  if  we  use  the  square  except  for  very 
special  occasions." 

So  we  made  a  parade  ground  for  ourselves 
with  very  great  labour  and  the  joy  that  comes 
with  toil  or  the  world  would  work  no  more.  Then, 
Heavens!  how  I  drilled  them!  Every  exercise 
and  manoeuvre  known  to  the  mind  of  man  and 
gymnasium  mistresses  was  brought  into  force, 
and  every  atom  of  information  acquired  or  in- 
herited from  a  family  that  had  always  produced 
soliders  came  to  my  aid  and  was  brought  into 
active  use.  Not  the  least  of  my  accomplish- 
ments was  that  at  this  juncture  I  roped  in  Mrs. 
Marriott  and  Mrs.  Rookwood  to  make  uniforms 
for  my  regiment. 

At  various  shops  in  the  town  I  found  plenty  of 
red  twill.  It  is  called  "limbo"  in  Mashonaland 
and  used  for  "swapping"  with  the  natives  in 
return  for  hens  and  rice  and  eggs  and  things.  This 
I  commandeered  in  large  quantities  and  carried 
off  to  Mrs.  Rookwood.  Like  all  colonial  women 


236  The  Claw 

she  was  clever  with  her  hands,  and  could  cut  out 
and  make  anything,  from  a  ball-gown  to  a  suit  of 
clothes.  Indeed,  she  told  me  that  she  had  actually 
without  any  help  made  the  ravishing  suit  of 
khaki  in  which  she  started  for  the  front,  having 
cut  it  out  and  set  to  work  at  the  first  rumour  of 
trouble  with  the  natives. 

She  now  at  my  instigation  designed  a  most 
fascinating  uniform,  in  which  the  boys  looked  as 
gallant  as  French  Zouaves,  and  the  girls,  with 
their  skirts  tucked  into  the  baggy  bloomers,  like 
incipient,  rather  fat,  Turks.  The  first  full-dress 
parade,  held  in  the  market  square,  was  an 
entrancing  spectacle.  In  the  first  flush  of  admi- 
ration Colonel  Blow  was  moved  to  permit  the 
convicts  to  erect  cross-bars  and  a  trapeze,  make 
us  some  rough  dumb-bells  and  put  up  a  great 
strong  pole  for  a  giant's  stride  in  the  centre 
of  our  recreation  ground.  Mr.  Stair  contributed 
a  mile  or  two  of  stout  rope,  and  lo!  we  had  a 
stride  that  was  the  crowning  delight  of  life,  but 
that  I  am  fain  to  say  was  not  confined  to  the 
children;  for  between  patrols  and  picket  duties 
many  grown-up  khaki  legs  might  have  been  seen 
flying  round  amongst  the  scarlet  bloomers. 

Cricket  also  became  one  of  the  serious  affairs  of 
life.  And  I  taught  them  handball  against  the 
jail  wall  which  appeared  to  have  been  built  ex- 
pressly for  the  purpose  of  the  Irish  national  game. 
Of  course  I  am  half  Irish  and  that  must  be  taken 
into  account  when  I  say  that  next  to  baseball  it 


The  Children  Call  237 

is  the  greatest  game  in  the  world  for  exercising 
both  body  and  brain.  Played  at  its  best  it  is  a 
splendid  swift  panorama  of  rippling  muscles, 
dancing  feet,  sparkling  eyes,  and  racing  thoughts. 
You  can  actually,  by  the  player's  intent,  eye,  tell 
how  he  is  going  to  smash  that  ball,  which  will  come 
two  strokes  later,  into  the  middle  of  next  week. 

I  should  have  liked  to  get  up  a  baseball  team 
too;  but  there  was  a  difficulty  about  "sticks" 
and  the  mothers  were  afraid  of  eyes  being  put  out 
and  noses  broken.  Perhaps  they  were  right. 
Anyway,  we  had  games  enough  to  keep  us  alive 
and  busy  and  young.  I  was  not  very  ancient 
myself,  but  felt  myself  growing  younger  every  day 
amongst  those  fascinating  Fort  George  children, 
and  I  began  to  swagger  and  brag  about  them  as 
if  they  were  my  own. 

Four  weeks  after  our  first  going  into  laager  no 
one  would  have  recognised  them  for  the  gang  of 
discontented  reprobates  they  had  been.  Bright 
cheeks,  serene  eyes,  and  lumps  of  muscle  like 
young  cocoanuts  on  their  legs  and  arms  were  now 
their  most  distinguishing  features. 

I  had  pride  also  in  their  changed  demeanour. 
Of  course  they  were  still  noisy  and  often  naughty— 
what  child  worth  its  salt  is  not?  But  drill  and 
discipline  had  done  a  great  deal  for  them,  and 
though  they  were  gay  and  rowdy-dowdy  they 
were  no  longer  the  melancholy,  meaningless,  and 
rather  malicious  monkeys  to  whom  I  had  first 
made  advances. 


238  The  Claw 

And  at  night  in  laager  they  really  behaved  well. 
It  is  true  that  they  did  not  go  to  bed  like  lambs, 
and  sometimes  on  a  hot  stuffy  night  there  would 
be  a  row  in  the  dormitories  that  called  for  my 
special  intervention.  A  mother  would  come  to 
our  post-office  den  and  say : 

"Oh,  Miss  Saurin,  would  you  come  and  speak 
to  Jimmy?"  or  Cliffie  or  Sally — or  some  one 
or  other.  And  I  would  be  obliged  to  confront  the 
criminal  wearing  the  air  of  a  Caesar  reproaching 
his  Brutus  with  a  last  "Et  tu?" 

Nearly  always  that  would  suffice,  but  some- 
times I  had  to  ring  a  change  and  in  dramatic 
tones  threaten  the  offender  with  the  prospect  of 
running  the  gauntlet  or  the  extreme  penalty  of 
having  his  honours  stripped  from  his  breast  before 
the  eyes  of  the  World.  Jimmy  Grant  wore  my 
Bisley  medal:  for  highest  cricket  score.  Cliffie 
Shannon  had  a  miniature  of  President  Grover 
Cleveland  set  in  amethysts  strung  round  his  wiry 
neck :  for  measuring  biggest  round  the  calf.  Claude 
Macdonald  (an  Aberdeen  Presbyterian)  proudly 
displayed  a  Pius  IX  bronze  medal,  and  I  believe 
secretly  considered  the  "super  nos  spiritus  de  ex- 
celso"  as  being  specially  applicable  to  his  prowess 
in  running.  Various  members  of  the  brigade  wore 
twisted  silver  bangles  of  which  I  fortunately  had 
a  number.  It  would  have  been  a  serious  matter 
to  have  been  deprived  of  these  decorations,  and  a 
threat  of  such  a  tragedy  was  usually  quite  enough 
to  ensure  good  conduct. 


The  Children  Call  239 

But  on  the  whole  the  nice  things  behaved  with  a 
reasonableness  that  would  have  become  many  of 
the  older  people  in  laager.  Among  the  Dutch  folk 
many  disagreeable  incidents  occurred.  Neither 
were  some  of  our  guardians  and  defenders  above 
reproach.  The  men  who  were  off  duty  often 
made  merry  in  their  own  quarters,  and  in  dull 
times  it  is  supposed  that  they  essayed  to  keep 
their  spirits  up  by  pouring  spirits  down.  Colonel 
Blow  and  his  staff  kept  good  order,  but  there  were 
some  incorrigibles  and  one  of  the  worst  was  Mr. 
Skeffington-Smythe.  Often  on  hot  nights  we 
were  obliged  to  close  our  tiny  porthole  window 
which  overlooked  the  main  yard  and  do  with- 
out air  rather  than  be  disturbed  by  the  thrill- 
ing conversations  which  occurred  between  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe,  safely  and  exclusively  tied 
inside  her  tent,  and  Monty,  returned  late  from  a 
convivial  gathering,  clamouring  piteously  without : 

"Porkie!  Porkie!  Let  me  in.  ...  Darling! 
Let  me  in !  How  am  I  to  sleep  out  in  this  infernal 
yard?" 

"Go  away!" 

"Porkie!"  in  a  yearning,  heart-searing  tone. 

"Go  away!    Wretch!    Pig!" 

"Nina,  was  it  for  this  I  came  down  through 
deadly  danger  to  mind  you,  instead  of  going  off 
with  all  the  fellows  to -have  a  good  time  at  the 
front?" 

Exclamations  of  disgust,  quite  indescribable, 
from  inside  the  tent. 


240  The  Claw 

"I  bet  they  're  having  a  better  time  than  I  am 
now,  Porkie!" 

"Oh,  you  wretched  little  worm!  Will  you  go 
away!" 

Thus  it  was  between  Porkie  Skeffington-Smythe 
and  the  gallant  Monty,  who  was  at  one  time 
thought  to  be  on  his  way  to  the  Victoria  Cross! 


CHAPTER  XII 

DUTY  CALLS 

"Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden 
And  reap  his  old  reward, 
The  blame  of  those  ye  better 
The  hate  of  those  ye  guard." 

"\JO  news  from  the  front  yet!"  That  was 
1  ^  always  the  answer  to  our  daily  inquiries, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  feed  our  anxious, 
hungry  hearts  with  the  old  supposition  that  no 
news  is  good  news.  After  the  forces  had  once 
left  Sigala  there  was  no  way  of  getting  into  tele- 
graphic communication  with  them  and  the  last 
direct  news  we  had  from  our  men  was  when 
they  made  a  junction  with  the  Salisbury  and 
Victoria  Columns,  becoming  merged  in  them 
and  thereafter  proceeding  on  the  march  for 
Buluwayo. 

Afterwards  there  was  a  long  silence.  A  silence 
full  of  foreboding  and  fear  for  us,  realising  that 
our  men  were  at  last  in  the  wild,  unbroken,  little 
known  country  ofthe  Matabele,  where  a  savage 
and  bloodthirsty  enemy  lay  in  wait  for  them — 

241 

z6 


242  The  Claw 

an  enemy  that  mustered  twenty  thousand  fight- 
ing men  strongly  armed  with  rifles  and  assegai, 
while  our  troops  all  told  mustered  only  six  hundred 
and  seventy  (not  including  colonial  boys  and 
friendly  natives). 

There  was  reason  enough  in  the  little  township 
for  pale  faces  and  haggard  eyes,  and  they  were 
plainly  in  evidence,  but  hardly  ever  without  the 
accompaniment  of  the  old  gay  nil  desperandum 
smile  which  seems  to  be  a  peculiar  attribute  of 
British  people  when  they  find  themselves  in  tight 
corners  and  unsmiling  circumstances. 

About  the  end  of  October  two  men  with  de- 
spatches brought  in  the  first  news.  There  had 
been  a  big  fight  with  the  Matabele  on  the  25th 
October  near  the  Shangani  River,  when  our  people 
had  been  engaged  by  a  number  of  the  most  im- 
portant of  Lobengula's  impis,  including  the 
Insukameni  regiment,  the  third  best  of  the  King's 
crack  companies.  This  battle  was  afterwards 
officially  described  as  the  Battle  of  Shangani,  and 
the  Matabele  losses  were  about  five  hundred 
whilst  our  forces  had  lost  one  man,  with  six 
wounded.  Two  horses  had  been  killed — a  very 
serious  matter,  for  the  columns  were  already 
short  of  mounts. 

After  the  Battle  of  the  Shangani  our  troops  had 
resumed  their  march  to  Buluwayo,  going  slowly, 
as  they  were  subject  to  constant  small  attacks 
burning  kraals  as  they  went,  and  collecting  cattle 
left  behind  by  the  fleeing  Matabele. 


Duty  Calls  243 

After  this  we  had  no  more  news  until  the  second 
week  in  November,  when  suddenly  one  morning 
the  wires  were  humming  with  the  tidings  that  Dr. 
Jameson  had  occupied  Buluwayo.  The  Union 
Jack  strung  to  a  great  mimosa  tree  floated  out 
over  the  ruined  and  burning  kraal  of  a  dethroned 
tyrant ! 

The  news  came  to  us  from  Palapye,  the  capital 
of  Khama's  country,  away  down  south.  It  had 
been  brought  there  by  Burnham,  that  brave  and 
intrepid  American,  whose  name  will  live  for 
ever  in  the  annals  of  early  Rhodesia  and  in  the 
history  of  all  scouts.  He  and  his  mate  Ingram 
(also  an  American)  had  ridden  with  a  Zulu  boy 
who  knew  the  road,  one  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  to  Tati,  hoping  to  find  there  a  telegraph 
office  from  which  they  could  telegraph  the  news  to 
Mr.  Rhodes.  But  at  Tati  they  found  no  wire- 
it  had  not  yet  reached  that  place.  There  was 
only  a  heliograph  station  that  because  of  the 
cloudy  weather  was  of  no  use  to  them.  Burn- 
ham  then,  though  wearied  out  by  the  terrible  ride 
they  had  already  accomplished,  decided  to  push 
on  to  Palapye,  another  ninety  miles,  and  there, 
on  the  morning  of  November  Qth,  he  gave  to  the 
world  the  news  that  civilisation  had  advanced 
another  great  stride,  in  the  subjugating  of  a 
savage  and  cruel  nation;  while  to  the  map  had 
been  added  one  more  of  those  little  pink  stains 
that  stand  for  Empire  and  Progress. 

Oh!  how  we  stood  around  the  telegraph  office 


244  The  Claw 

that  day,  and  many  days  after,  and  drank  in 
details  of  the  victory!  In  thrilling  scraps  it  all 
came  in. 

We  heard  of  the  Battle  of  the  Imbembesi,  which 
had  taken  place  on  the  first  of  November  when 
the  very  flower  of  the  Matabele  army  had  come 
forth  in  all  their  glory  of  native  war-dress  and 
waving  ostrich  plumes,  shaking  the  earth  beneath 
their  dancing  feet,  holding  their  red-and-white 
ox-skin  shields  before  them  and  making  jia  at 
the  white  men  with  their  gleaming  assegais.  They 
had  fought  there  and  died  in  hundreds  at  the 
very  gates  of  the  royal  kraal;  and  the  old  King, 
desperate  at  last  at  the  tidings  of  defeat  brought 
in  by  his  scouts,  had  fled,  taking  with  him  his 
wives  and  children  and  such  of  his  warriors  as 
remained  faithful  to  him  in  his  adversity.  But 
before  he  went  he  gave  orders  for  the  burning  and 
utter  destruction  of  the  kraal  of  Buluwayo,  that 
scene  of  savage  splendours  and  innumerable 
cruelties  now  for  ever  past. 

A  just  fate  had  overtaken  Lobengula,  but  even 
while  we  realised  it  there  seemed  to  us  at  that 
time  something  terribly  pathetic  in  the  thought  of 
the  old  monarch,  swollen  and  tortured  with 
gout  and  the  madness  of  defeat,  full  of  fierce 
spleen  against  those  whose  friendship  he  had 
himself  estranged  by  treachery  and  false  dealing, 
fleeing  now  before  the  winds  of  adversity  and 
despair.  It  seemed  that  some  prophetic  thought 
must  have  lain  in  the  mind  of  his  mother  when 


Duty  Calls  245 

she  named  him  Lobengula  —  "Driven  by  the 
wind." 

When  our  men  at  last  arrived  at  the  royal 
kraal,  pitched  high  on  the  brow  of  a  great  plateau 
commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  country,  they 
found  that  like  Jericho  of  old  its  walls  were  down 
to  the  feet  of  the  invader,  but  for  a  time  they 
could  see  nothing  clearly  for  the  smoke  that  arose 
in  black-and-grey  spirals  and  suffused  the  land- 
scape, blotting  out  the  sunlight,  while  a  disgusting 
and  indescribable  odour  of  burning  refuse  stung 
their  throats  and  terribly  assailed  their  nostrils. 
Besides  firing  the  mean  dwellings  of  his  tribe, 
Lobengula  had  caused  huts  full  of  splendid  ivory 
and  furs  and  karosses  to  be  given  to  the  flames, 
and  grain  enough  to  feed  a  nation  had  been  ruth- 
lessly destroyed.  While  in  the  centre  of  a  huge 
open  space  surrounded  by  rings  a  hundred  feet 
wide  of  smouldering  huts,  were  the  ruins  of  what 
had  lately  been  the  King's  palace. 

This  great  space  had  been  the  place  of  the 
King's  privacy  and  at  the  same  time  his  Throne- 
room  and  the  arena  of  justice  and  state.  There 
had  been  times  when  its  white  dust  lay  shimmering 
in  an  almost  terrible  peace,  while  the  King  sat 
before  his  door  in  the  morning  sunlight  watching 
his  magnificent  peacocks  as  they  strutted  and 
scratched,  preening  their  jewelled  feathers  and 
crying  their  sinister  unmusical  cries.  In  those 
hours  many  eyes  secretly  watched  the  tyrant 
through  holes  bored  in  the  walls  of  their  huts,  but 


246  The  Claw 

none  except  the  peacocks  dared  break  the  silence 
when  the  Lion  of  Matabeleland  sat  considering  his 
savage  politics  and  arranging  the  affairs  of  his 
nation. 

There  were  other  times  when  the  court-yard 
witnessed  scenes  of  barbaric  glory  and  ferocity  un- 
paralleled since  the  time  of  Bloody  Tchaka  of  Zulu- 
land.  It  was  there  that  the  King  would  come  forth 
in  state  to  receive  the  royal  salute — "Bayete!" — 
from  the  brazen  throats  of  his  impis  drawn  up  in 
countless  splendid  lines — lines  of  rippling  muscular 
bodies,  black  as  polished  ebony  and  as  bare,  save 
for  the  moocha  of  leopard  skin  and  the  bands  and 
bangles  of  brass.  There  when  the  spirit  moved 
them  to  slay  and  they  wished  for  permission  to  go 
forth  and  plunge  their  assegais  into  the  bosoms 
of  the  hapless  Mashonas,  his  warriors  danced 
before  Lobengula,  making  the  ground  tremble 
and  thunder  beneath  their  leaping  feet.  There 
the  great  indabas  had  taken  place  and  the  bloody 
"smelling  out"  ceremonies  of  the  witch-doctors. 
Many  a  time  had  the  wide  level  space  been 
stained  with  hot  gushing  life-blood,  and  strewn 
with  dead  men,  while  the  old  King,  great  in 
stature  as  in  cruelty,  sat  upon  his  three-legged 
stool  of  state,  laughing  in  his  thick  throat,  his 
small  keen  eyes  like  knife-points  in  his  grossly 
featured  face. 

Now  all  lay  in  ruins.  Everything  was  broken 
and  devastated  and  wrecked  by  the  tremendous 
explosion  of  eighty  thousand  rounds  of  ammuni- 


Duty  Calls  247 

tion  which  had  been  fired  at  the  last  moment  at 
the  King's  commands. 

On  top  of  the  heaps  of  debris,  forlorn  and  over- 
turned, was  found  the  silver  elephant  which  had 
been  given  to  Lobengula  by  the  Tati  Company 
to  whom  he  had  granted  concessions.  He  had 
greatly  prized  this  silver  model,  seeing  in  it  a 
flattering  reference  to  his  own  might  and  great- 
ness. Now  it  lay  amidst  the  ruins  of  his  glory, 
a  symbol  of  power  broken  and  despotism  thrown 
down. 


Our  men  had  done  splendidly.  There  had 
been  deaths  and  casualties,  but  they  were  deaths 
bravely  met — facing  fearful  odds — and  the  casual- 
ties were  few,  considering  the  enormous  difference 
in  numbers  between  the  conflicting  forces. 

Later  in  the  month  we  got  more  news  from 
men  who  had  arrived  in  Salisbury  with  despatches, 
having  left  Buluwayo  some  little  time  after  its 
occupation  by  our  forces.  They  said  that  Dr. 
Jameson  was  "sitting"  there,  waiting  for  an 
answer  from  the  King  whom  he  had  sent  after  and 
told  to  come  in.  There  had  been  some  delay  and 
difficulty  in  getting  boys  to  go  with  this  message, 
as  unless  they  were  Matabele  they  stood  a  very 
good  chance  of  being  killed  before  they  could 
reach  the  presence  of  the  King.  However,  event- 
ually three  colonial  boys  had  volunteered  to  go, 
and  the  Doctor  had  given  them  a  letter  written 


248  The  Claw 

in  English,  Dutch,  and  Zulu,  telling  the  King  that 
the  nation  was  beaten  and  that  to  avoid  further 
bloodshed  he  must  come  in.  His  personal  safety 
was  guaranteed,  and  he  was  further  told  that  after 
the  return  of  the  messengers  two  days  would  be 
given  him  in  which  to  return.  The  Doctor  had 
also  despatched  some  native  spies — Zambesi  boys 
—to  find  out  all  they  could  concerning  the  where- 
abouts and  doings  of  the  King.  These  returned 
a  couple  of  days  later  and  reported  that  the  Mata- 
bele  were  massed  in  large  numbers  about  thirty 
or  forty  miles  to  the  north  of  Buluwayo.  They 
were  extended  in  camps  across  the  country  with 
the  idea  of  protecting  the  King,  who  lay  at  a  place 
called  Intaba-gi-konga,  a  small  hill  surrounded  by 
thick  bush  about  fifty  miles  away  from  Buluwayo. 
The  spies  had  been  in  the  camps  and  talked  to  the 
enemy  (pretending  to  be  in  search  of  some  of  their 
own  people  who  had  left  their  kraals)  and  they 
reported  the  Matabele  very  cowed  and  depressed 
by  their  recent  reverses.  The  men  of  the  Imbezu 
regiment  who  had  bragged  to  the  King  that  they 
would  walk  through  the  laagers  of  the  white  men, 
killing  the  elder  men  and  bringing  back  the  rest 
for  slaves,  had  lost  at  the  Imbembezi  fight  about 
five  hundred  out  of  seven  hundred  men,  and  were 
so  much  demoralised  by  their  beating  that  the 
Zambesi  boys  had  actually  gone  in  amongst  them 
and  spoken  to  them  like  equals,  whereas  in  days 
not  long  past  it  meant  death  to  an  inferior  native 
who  addressed  himself  to  an  Imbezu. 


Duty  Calls  249 

This  news  lifted  a  burden  from  our  hearts,  and 
we  realised  at  last  that  our  vigil  with  anxiety  was 
at  an  end.  The  war  was  over!  Our  men  would 
soon  be  home,  all  but  those  who  meant  to  stay 
and  occupy  Matabeleland,  of  whom  it  was  said 
there  would  be  many,  especially  amongst  the 
mining  men.  Rumours  had  already  arrived  that 
the  country  round  Buluwayo  showed  signs  of  gold- 
bearing  reef. 

It  was  certain  at  any  rate  that  Lobengula  must 
come  in  and  surrender  himself  before  long.  He 
might  linger  for  a  while  and  try  to  make  favourable 
terms,  of  course ;  or  he  might  be  persuaded  by  some 
of  his  younger  warriors  who  had  not  had  enough 
fighting,  to  hold  out  a  little  longer.  But  it  was 
now  known  that  the  King  was  a  very  sick  man,  and 
for  that  reason  alone  it  seemed  most  unlikely  he 
would  wish  to  continue  a  struggle  that  would  keep 
him  out  for  some  months  longer  in  a  wild  and 
uncultivated  part  of  the  country  without  proper 
shelter  for  himself  and  his  queens  and  children. 
It  is  supposed  by  many  people  that  natives  can 
live  anywhere  and  in  any  state  of  wildness  as  long 
as  they  are  in  their  own  country;  but  this  is  a 
mistake.  The  Matabele,  for  instance,  had  left 
their  kraals  and  their  growing  crops  behind  them 
to  go  into  the  bush  where  there  was  nothing  for 
them  to  eat  except  the  cattle  they  had  brought 
with  them,  and  the  small  amount  of  grain  they 
had  been  able  to  carry  away.  In  the  meantime 
the  wet  season  was  advancing  rapidly,  and  there 


250  The  Claw 

would  be  no  shelter  for  them  from  the  heavy 
flooding  rains  that  fall  in  November,  December, 
and  early  January.  It  surprised  me  to  hear  that 
natives  cannot  stand  exposure  to  the  furious 
elements  any  more  than  white  people  can.  They 
sicken  and  die  just  as  we  should  do.  Further- 
more, they  cannot  live  on  a  perpetual  meat  diet ; 
they  need  meal,  and  grain,  and  green  mealies,  and 
rice;  and  if  they  cannot  get  these  things  they 
cannot  live. 

It  was  known  too  that  small-pox  was  rife 
amongst  the  Matabele.  This  was  one  of  the 
reasons  that  our  native  allies  from  Bechuanaland 
— the  Bamangwatoos — had  deserted  us  early  in  the 
campaign,  and  returned  to  their  kraals.  A  thou- 
sand of  them  under  their  Chief  Khama  had  started 
for  Mashonaland  to  fight  under  Colonel  Gould- 
Adams,  who  was  bringing  up  a  flying  column  of 
Bechuanaland  Border  Police  to  reinforce  our  men; 
but  when  they  heard  of  small-pox,  and  further 
realised  that  the  campaign  was  likely  to  last 
some  months,  they  calmly  gave  notice  to  quit,  and 
returning  to  their  own  country  set  about  reaping 
their  crops.  Their  attitude  was  the  attitude  of 
Dr.  Abingdon.  They  had  not  lost  any  Matabele, 
neither  any  small-pox;  why  should  they  seek  for 
these  things? 

Fortunately,  there  proved  to  be  no  need  for  the 
services  of  such  valorous  allies.  The  Southern 
Column  was  quite  able  to  account  for  itself  with- 
out native  assistance,  and  had  already  arrived 


Duty  Calls  251 

within  fifty  miles  of  Buluwayo,  having  met  and 
ignominiously  dispersed  about  eight  thousand 
Matebele  under  the  command  of  Gambo,  the 
son-in-law  of  the  King. 

The  country  south  of  Buluwayo  was  now  quite 
clear  of  the  enemy  and  the  whole  road  to 
Tati  and  Tuli  was  reported  to  be  crowded  with 
transport-waggons  bringing  up  loads  of  things 
to  Mashonaland,  and  also  hurrying  with  stores 
and  provisions  to  the  capital  of  the  newly  opened 
country. 

Odds  and  ends  of  private  letters  began  to  reach 
us  from  the  front :  some  were  brought  in  by  native 
carriers — Maholi  and  Mashona  boys  who,  now 
that  the  danger  was  all  past  were  glad  to  return 
to  the  service  of  the  white  men  (full  of  soft  words 
of  explanation  and  apology  for  having  left  so  ab- 
ruptly)— and  some  by  despatch  riders  with  official 
news.  Mrs.  Grant  got  a  long  letter  from  her 
husband  and  Mr.  Stair  a  few  lines  from  Gerry 
Deshon,  and  several  other  people  received  belated 
documents,  which  were  thumbed  and  passed  under 
many  more  eyes  than  they  were  originally  intended 
for,  within  a  few  hours  of  their  arrival.  Mrs. 
Marriott  had  a  letter  from  her  husband  which 
changed  the  face  of  life  for  her  and  turned  her  into 
a  laughing,  weeping  child.  No  one  asked  to  see 
her  letter. 

Every  one  was  able  to  glean  some  scrap  of  in- 
formation to  apply  like  a  healing  ointment  to  an 
aching  wound,  and  every  one  seemed  to  have 


252  The  Claw 

something  to  weep  or  smile  over,  except  me. 
Neither  letter  nor  message  came  for  me!  It  is 
true  that  I  gathered  from  others  that  Anthony 
Kinsella  was  well  and  had  done  splendid  work, 
and  incidentally  I  heard  that  he  had  despatched 
private  letters  to  Fort  George  by  carrier.  But 
that  carrier  never  came.  If  there  was  a  letter 
for  me,  then  like  many  another  it  never  reached 
its  destination.  Often  in  the  months  that  came 
after,  sodden  native  pouches  containing  white 
pulp  which  had  once  been  letters  were  found  lying 
on  the  veldt — in  one  or  two  instances  with  a  skull 
near  by  to  tell  a  little  tragic,  eloquent  tale. 

Every  one  wrote  that  they  would  be  back  very 
shortly — as  soon  as  Lobengula  came  in  and  gave 
himself  up.  He  had  sent  a  specious  letter  to 
Dr.  Jameson  to  say  that  he  was  coming,  and  the 
Doctor  was  still  waiting  for  the  promise  to  be 
fulfilled.  But  the  days  went  by  and  the  King  of 
the  Matabele  did  not  materialise.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  was  hastening  to  put  as  great  a  distance 
as  possible  between  himself  and  Buluwayo.  He 
was  for  the  North.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
high  fertile  country  beyond  the  Zambesi  would 
be  a  good  place  to  get  out  of  the  white  man's  range 
and  found  a  new  dynasty,  and  thither  he  was 
hurrying  with  such  speed  as  his  fat  and  enormous 
body  would  permit.  He  was  far  too  unwieldy  to 
walk  even  if  he  had  not  been  racked  with  gout; 
so  his  warriors  carried  him,  and  at  other  times 
dragged  him  along  in  a  Bath-chair.  When  that 


Duty  Calls  253 

broke  down  at  last,  and  his  oxen  died  from  lack  of 
food  and  rest,  he  commanded  his  men  to  span 
themselves  to  the  waggon  and  pull  him  along,  and 
they  did  so;  whilst  close  upon  the  spoor  of  the 
waggons  came  trooping  crowds  of  women  and 
children  and  boys  driving  cattle;  all  making  for 
the  new  land  of  despotism  that  was  to  be  founded 
beyond  the  waters  of  the  Zambesi. 

In  the  meantime  a  feeling  of  insecurity  and 
impatience  began  once  more  to  prevail  in  the 
rest  of  the  country.  It  was  realised  that  no 
progress  of  any  consequence  could  be  made,  no 
real  advancement  furthered  until  the  question  of 
the  Matabele  powers  was  settled  for  ever.  Loben- 
gula,  if  he  would  not  surrender,  must  be  laid  by  the 
heels,  and  there  were  men  "sitting"  in  Buluwayo 
who  were  eager  enough  and  able  enough  to  do 
the  laying. 

It  was  no  use  letting  him  settle  and  grow  power- 
ful on  the  other  side  of  the  Zambesi,  ready  to 
swoop  down  and  give  more  trouble  some  day. 
There  could  be  no  security  until  every  belligerent 
native  had  laid  down  his  arms  and  returned  to 
peaceable  occupation. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  the  whole  country  when 
the  news  came  that  a  column  had  started  out 
after  the  King.  Then  indeed  we  knew  that  the 
beginning  of  the  end  had  come,  and  that  we  might 
thereafter  possess  our  souls  in  peace  and  security. 

Laager  was  broken  in  Fort  George,  and  we  slept 
jn  real  beds  once  more.  The  coaches  from  "up" 


254  The  Claw 

and  "down"  country  began  to  pass  through  again, 
and  we  got  regular  mails  and  were  no  longer  cut 
off  from  the  civilised  world.  I  was  soon  reminded 
of  this  fact  by  letters  from  Salisbury  urging  me  to 
take  coach  and  rejoin  my  sister-in-law  there.  My 
brother  Dick  was  one  of  those  who  were  remaining 
in  Buluwayo  to  see  things  finally  "fixed  up." 
However,  it  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  urgently  in- 
dicated that  I  should  join  Judy  just  then.  Instead, 
I  left  my  hotel  and  at  the  invitation  of  Mrs. 
Marriott  took  up  my  residence  with  her  in  her 
little  series  of  huts. 

It  was  round  about  Christmas  time  and  a 
sprightly  air  began  to  prevail  in  the  township. 
One  day  some  waggons  arrived  with  machinery  for 
a  neighbouring  mine  and  when  they  had  off-loaded 
at  the  Mining  Company's  stores  in  the  town  some 
one  said : 

"Why  should  not  we  borrow  one  of  these  nice 
waggons  and  go  for  a  picnic  somewhere  away  from 
this  old  town  in  which  we  have  lived  too  long  and 
wearily?" 

And  some  one  else  said : 

"Good  idea!     Why  not,  indeed ?" 

And  before  any  one  knew  how  or  where  it  was 
done  it  had  been  definitely  decided  that  we  should 
have  a  Christmas  picnic  in  a  lovely  spot  called 
Green  Streams  ten  miles  away. 

Personally  I  was  not  very  keen  on  this  plan, 
and  I  knew  that  a  great  many  others  felt  the  same 
way  about  it.  There  seemed  to  be  a  certain 


Duty  Calls  255 

heartlessness  in  celebrating  Christmas  so  pleas- 
antly while  our  men  were  still  away  at  the  front, 
even  though  we  were  assured  that  all  was  well 
with  them — that  they  were  not  fighting,  but  merely 
making  a  triumphal  march  on  the  retreating 
enemy,  in  order  to  bring  back  the  legal  trophies  of 
war.  However,  so  many  people  seemed  eager  for 
the  picnic,  and  really  physically  to  need  a  change 
of  air  and  scene  from  Fort  George,  and  the  children 
were  so  wistful  about  it,  that  it  seemed  sel- 
fish to  protest  against  the  plan.  And  I  am 
sure  that  it  was  mainly  for  the  children's  sake 
that  many  of  us  resisted  the  desire  to  remain  at 
home,  instead  of  picnicking  on  the  veldt. 

Once  the  thing  was  settled,  though,  every  one 
threw  themselves  with  a  zest  into  preparations. 
Cooking  went  on  at  a  great  rate,  and  the  whole 
town  smelt  of  belated  plum-puddings,  and  hams 
bubbling  in  three-legged  pots.  And  outside  every 
house  were  to  be  seen  half-a-dozen  Mashona  hens 
with  their  necks  wrung.  I  may  mention  that  there 
is  about  three  mouthfuls  of  flesh  on  each  of  these 
birds. 

Every  one  was  frightfully  busy  filling  empty 
packing-cases  with  crockery  and  pots  and  pans, 
and  late  into  the  night  people  were  still  carrying 
things  to  be  piled  into  the  waggon.  It  was  like 
the  preparations  of  the  Israelites  for  their  depart- 
ure to  the  promised  land. 

The  next  day,  at  six  o'clock  of  a  blue-and-gold 
morning,  we  set  out.  Some  of  the  women-folk, 


256  The  Claw 

and  the  smaller  children,  rode  in  the  waggon,  but 
most  of  us  cheerfully  padded  the  hoof,  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  stretch  our  limbs  over  the  short, 
burnt  grass,  regardless  of  such  trifles  as  stick- 
grass  and  ticks. 

The  children  begged  to  wear  their  scarlet  uni- 
forms, and  they  danced  along  yelling  and  prancing, 
like  a  band  of  red  Indians  let  loose. 

We  reached  Green  Streams  at  about  nine  o'clock 
and  found  it  a  lovely  open  glade  with  clumps  of 
trees  scattered  everywhere,  and  huge  cliffy  rocks 
standing  alone,  and  a  slender  little  fringed  river 
curling  like  a  silver  caterpillar  through  the  middle 
of  the  scene.  Soon  the  lovely  smell  of  wood  fires 
was  on  the  air,  and  every  climbable  rock  had  a 
scarlet  spot  decorating  its  summit. 

"I  think  it  was  an  excellent  idea  of  yours,  Miss 
Saurin,  to  let  the  children  wear  their  uniforms," 
said  Mrs.  Burney.  "We  can't  possibly  lose  sight 
of  them  now,  can  we?" 

"It  was  their  own  idea, "  I  said.  "They  adore 
that  get-up  of  theirs. " 

"Yes,  and  they  adore  you,  too.  I  'd  like  to 
know  who  does  n't, "  she  said  so  unexpectedly 
that  I  was  quite  overwhelmed.  Of  course  I  was 
frightfully  pleased  at  such  a  remark  coming  from 
her  so  warmly  and  spontaneously,  and  I  really 
could  not  help  believing  that  they  did  like  me  a 
little  better  than  in  the  beginning  of  laager;  but  of 
course  it  was  absurd  to  talk  of  any  one  adoring  me. 
It  was  only  necessary  to  watch  the  faces  of  the 


Duty  Calls  257 

Salisbury  women  when  I  was  in  their  vicinity  to 
see  how  cordially  I  was  detested  by  them  at  least. 
As  soon  as  we  arrived  they  had  ensconced  them- 
selves under  the  shadiest  bunch  of  trees  (not  too 
far  from  the  commissariat  department)  and  were 
ordering  Monty  Skeffington-Smythe  and  another 
man  about  like  dogs,  to  look  for  cushions  and  rugs 
and  make  them  comfortable  in  the  shade.  They 
still  clung  together,  but  not  from  love,  I  think. 
I  never  saw  three  women  more  ennuie  with  each 
other.  They  were  absolutely  drooping  with  bore- 
dom, and  I  believe  the  only  active  feeling  any  of 
them  possessed  was  dislike  of  me.  It  was  really 
a  wonder  that  they  had  found  the  energy  to  come 
to  the  picnic,  but  the  Fort  George  women  laugh- 
ingly and  perhaps  a.  little  maliciously  suggested 
that  their  probable  reason  for  coming  was  that 
they  thought  it  the  easiest  and  simplest  way  of 
securing  an  excellent  Christmas  dinner  without 
any  personal  exertion.  Adriana  had  for  sometime 
past  been  professing  herself  to  be  precariously  ill. 
The  mysterious  malady  she  was  suffering  from 
did  not  affect  her  appetite  or  prevent  her  from 
looking  extremely  robust;  and  rumour  unkindly 
put  it  that  she  was  in  reality  jibbing  at  last  at 
having  to  do  simply  everything  for  three  well- 
grown,  able-bodied  women  who  were  perfectly 
capable  of  looking  after  themselves.  However, 
she  had  recovered  her  health  and  strength  for  that 
day  at  least,  and  was  at  the  moment  assisting 
Monty  Skeffington-Smythe  and  the  Doctor  to 


258  The  Claw 

carry  coffee  and  roaster-cookies  to  the  languid  party 
under  the  trees. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Miss  Saurin?" 
Mrs.  Rook  wood  asked  me  in  her  wistful  way. 
Now  that  laager  was  over  she  had  grown  very 
tragic  about  the  eyes  again,  and  her  mirthless 
laugh  with  its  defiant  note  began  to  be  frequently 
heard.  She  always  stayed  as  near  me  as  pos- 
sible, perhaps  because  I  made  it  my  business  to 
repay  in  kind  everything  in  the  shape  of  a  snub 
that  came  her  way. 

The  Fort  George  women  it  is  true  were  always 
kind  to  her,  and  forgot  her  sins  in  the  remembrance 
of  all  her  kindness  and  humble  helpfulness  to  them 
and  the  children.  The  intimacy  of  laager  life  had 
broken  down  barriers  that  would  otherwise  never 
have  been  overcome.  Moreover,  the  objection- 
able Mr.  Geach  had  been  so  extremely  oblig- 
ing as  to  break  his  neck  somewhere  in  the  Cape 
Colony,  so  that  as  soon  as  George  came  back  from 
the  front  all  would  be  well  with  the  Rookwoods. 
But  the  Salisburyites  showed  by  the  expression  of 
their  noses  that  they  considered  the  air  more  than 
ever  polluted  when  "the  Geach  person"  was 
anywhere  near. 

"I  'm  going  to  fix  up  Mrs.  Marriott  under  that 
tree  with  books  and  cushions,  and  then  I  suppose 
we  'd  better  help  get  the  dinner  ready. " 

"Well,  let  me  help,  won't  you?"  she  begged. 

"Of  course." 

Mrs.  Marriott  had  really  become  most  alarm- 


Duty  Calls  259 

ingly  fragile  of  late.  She  had  grown  amazingly 
young  and  pretty,  it  is  true,  but  her  clear  skin 
looked  almost  too  transparent,  and  there  were 
big  dark  shadows  under  her  eyes  that  threw  them 
up  and  made  them  look  perfectly  lovely — but 
shadows  are  shadows,  and  the  fact  remains  that 
however  becoming,  they  are  not  at  all  necessary  to 
health.  Secretly  I  was  anxious  about  her;  but 
no  one  else  seemed  to  have  noticed  any  change 
except  the  wonderful  one  in  her  spirits  and 
looks.  To-day,  it  might  have  been  the  conscious- 
ness that  she  was  looking  extremely  pretty  in  a 
white  dress  Mrs.  Rookwood  had  made  for  her, 
but  she  was  actually  humming  a  little  tune,  and 
she  remonstrated  laughingly  when  I  insisted  that 
she  should  rest  out  of  the  heat  and  not  think  of 
coming  to  help  get  the  dinner. 

"You  're  just  trying  to  make  a  molly-coddle  of 
me, "  she  said,  "and  yourself  so  indispensable  that 
I  shan't  be  able  to  do  without  you  ever  again.  I 
know  your  little  arts. " 

However,  she  was  finally  beguiled  to  do  as  I  told 
her,  and  when  she  was  comfortably  fixed  up  Mrs. 
Rookwood  and  I  waited  on  her  with  breakfast — 
a  cup  of  delicious  coffee,  and  a  hot  buttered  rusk. 

Afterwards  enormous  preparations  for  dinner 
began  to  go  forward.  The  hour  of  three  thirty  in 
the  afternoon  having  been  fixed  upon,  such  boys  as 
were  available  were  inspanned  to  the  task  of  col- 
lecting fuel  and  making  big  fires  at  a  certain  dis- 
tance from  the  camp  on  account  of  the  smoke. 


260  The  Claw 

Others  were  set  to  work  to  scoop  out  ant-heaps 
and  turn  them  into  red-hot  ovens  for  the  reception 
of  pastry  and  roast  meats.  These  impromptu 
Dutch  ovens  turn  out  wonderfully  light  bread 
and  are  splendid  for  pastry. 

Plenty  of  cold  delicacies  had  been  provided  for 
the  picnic,  but  the  Fort  George  women  had  vowed 
that  after  so  long  a  fast  from  nice  meals  every  one 
should  have  a  real  hot  Christmas  dinner.  So  the 
ovens  were  prepared  for  rounds  of  beef,  many 
chickens,  mince  pies,  custards,  and  cakes.  We 
found  that  they  had  arranged  and  allotted  all  the 
tasks  among  themselves,  but  they  had  included 
Mrs.  Rookwood  amongst  them,  at  which  she  could 
not  conceal  her  pride  and  gratitude.  But  me  they 
told  to  go  away  and  play  and  incidentally  to  mind 
Mrs.  Marriott  and  keep  an  eye  on  the  children. 
So  we  romped  with  the  children  first,  then  roamed 
about  exploring  the  rocky  kopjes,  digging  out 
fern  roots  for  home  planting,  gathering  flowers 
and  looking  at  the  Bushmen  drawings  of  which 
there  were  several  under  the  overhanging  ledges 
of  the  biggest  rock.  Queer  looking  things  they 
were — the  men  drawn  like  skeletons  with  all  their 
ribs  and  bones  showing,  driving  long,  lean  cattle 
that  had  the  bodies  of  cows  and  the  heads  of 
horses,  or  shooting  wild  buck  with  bows  and 
arrows.  They  say  these  drawings  which  are 
often  seen  in  Mashonaland  have  been  there  for 
centuries,  preserved  and  kept  fresh  because  they 
are  sheltered  under  the  eaves  of  the  rocks  from 
sun  and  rain. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DEFEAT   CALLS 

"Do  we  think  Victory  great?     And  so  it  is. 
But  now  it  seems  to  me,  when  it  cannot  be  helped, 
That  Defeat  is  great,  and  Death  and  Dismay  are  great!" 

AT  twelve  o'clock  Colonel  Blow  and  Maurice 
Stair  and  a  number  of  men  who  had  not  been 
able  to  get  away  any  earlier  arrived,  and  the 
children  went  off  to  hail  them  and  help  get  them 
some  refreshment. 

Mrs.  Marriott  and  I  sat  down  under  one  of  the 
great  rocks  on  a  lounge  of  cool  moss,  glad  to  get 
out  of  the  grilling  sunshine  for  a  while.  It  was 
not  long  before  we  began  to  speak  of  what  was 
uppermost  in  our  minds — our  men  at  the  front. 
I  said: 

"I  don't  know  what  your  husband  will  say  to 
you  looking  so  fragile.  I  shall  have  to  feed  you 
up  and  make  you  plump  before  he  arrives. " 

Impulsively  she  leaned  towards  me  and  took 
hold  of  my  hands.  Her  face  was  suffused  with 
colour. 

"Deirdre,  you  have  been  so  good  to  me,  and  I 
261 


262  The  Claw 

must  tell  you,  though  I  meant  to  keep  it  a  secret. 
This  looking  fragile  does  n't  really  matter — it  is 
natural."  She  paused,  then  added  softly,  "It  is 
part  of  the  state  of  my  coming  motherhood." 

"Oh!"  I  cried  at  last.  "How  beautiful  and 
wonderful  for  you,  dear!  And  how  glad  I  am!" 

She  looked  at  me  shyly  and  gravely. 

"Yes:  it  is  beautiful,  Deirdre.  But  I  did  not 
always  think  so.  I  knew  it  long  ago,  before 
Rupert  went,  and  it  seemed  to  me  then  like  the 
last  bitter  drop  in  a  most  bitter  cup.  Now  every- 
thing is  altered.  You  and  Anthony  Kinsella  have 
changed  the  face  of  life  for  him  and  for  me. " 

"No,  no!  You  have  done  it  yourselves,  dear. 
Your  husband's  fine  effort  had  to  be  made  by 
himself;  no  one  but  one's  self  can  do  these  things. 
One  must  fight  for  one's  own  soul.  You  know: 

'Ye  have  no  friend  but  Resolution!" 

"Yes,  but  if  Anthony  Kinsella  had  not  given 
him  his  chance  he  would  never  have  broken  away 
from—  Don't  I  know?  Oh,  God!  Did  not  I  pray 
and  watch  and  fight  for  him? — and  afterwards 
watch  him  drop  back  ?  Oh,  Deirdre,  no  one  can 
ever  know  the  awful  things  that  passed  before  hope 
died  in  me — that  frightful  drug  rearing  its  hideous 
head  between  us  like  a  great  beast !  You  cannot 
imagine  what  it  means  to  a  woman  to  see  not  only 
the  body  but  the  soul  of  the  man  she  loves  being 
devoured  before  her  eyes,  while  she  stands  looking 
on — helpless!  And  then  after  a  time — it  is  all 


Defeat  Calls  263 

part  of  the  hideous  enslavement — he  began  to 
hate  me  for  looking  on  at  his  degradation!" 

Her  face  became  anguished  even  at  the  recol- 
lection. I  held  her  hands  tightly,  but  I  looked 
away  from  her  eyes,  and  we  were  silent  for  a 
while,  but  presently  she  went  on : 

"And  your  share  in  it  has  been  great,  Deirdre. 
Without  your  help  I  could  never  have  pulled 
myself  out  of  the  pit  of  despair  and  desolation  into 
which  I  had  fallen.  My  spirit  was  in  fetters :  but 
you  have  helped  me  to  break  them — and  now  I 
feel  strong  enough  and  brave  enough  for  whatever 
comes.  I  have  a  heart  for  any  fate.  We  have 
a  big  fight  before  us  still,  I  know.  Rupert  has 
gone  back  in  his  profession  all  this  time  that  he  has 
done  nothing,  thought  nothing.  It  will  be  up- 
hill work  getting  back  to  where  he  was  before — and 
we  've  only  a  tiny  income — and  he  may  be  tempted 
again.  But,  oh !  how  I  mean  to  fight  for  my  happi- 
ness, Deirdre.  And  I  know  that  I  shall  win. " 

I  could  only  press  her  hand  tightly,  and  keep 
back  my  own  tears.  She  looked  such  a  delicate 
little  thing  to  put  up  such  a  big  fight.  It  seemed 
to  me  at  that  moment  that  the  battle-field  of  life 
was  a  cruel  and  hard  place  for  women,  and  their 
reward  for  battles  won,  all  too  pitiful.  We  sat 
a  long  time  in  silence. 

At  last  we  were  aroused  by  a  great  hooting  and 
tooting  and  banging  of  pans  and  tin  plates  from 
the  direction  of  the  camp.  The  significance  of 
these  sounds  and  also  the  odours  of  baked  meats 


264  The  Claw 

that  were  beginning  to  suffuse  the  veldt,  could 
not  be  misunderstood.  We  returned  to  camp  and 
dinner. 

Mrs.  Burney  had  her  best  damask  table-cloths 
spread  in  line  on  the  level  grass,  and  Mrs.  Rook- 
wood  had  decorated  the  snowy  expanse  with  trails 
of  wild  smilax  and  jasmine,  and  jam-jars  full  of 
scarlet  lilies  and  maidenhair  fern.  We  sat  down 
to  a  banquet  of  unparalleled  splendour,  of  which 
I  cannot  now  remember  all  the  details,  but  only 
that  they  were  opulent  and  luxurious  and  kingly. 
Afterwards  every  one  had  a  glass  of  some  delight- 
ful champagne  that  had  been  unearthed  from  the 
cellars  of  Hunloke  and  Denniscn,  and  Colonel 
Blow  ceremoniously  arose  and  asked  us  to  drink 
the  health  of  the  Queen,  and  we  drank,  standing. 

Then  Captain  Clinton  jumped  up  again  with  his 
glass  in  the  air  and  called  for  toasts  to  Mr.  Rhodes 
and  Dr.  Jim,  and  those  we  drank  uproariously. 
Afterwards  we  sat  very  quiet  for  a  moment,  and 
only  the  children's  voices  were  heard.  Colonel 
Blow  got  up  again  and  a  hush  fell  upon  us  all. 
Some  of  the  women  began  to  bite  their  lips,  to 
keep  themselves  from  crying,  and  Mrs.  Shand, 
who  had  been  one  of  the  brightest  and  gayest  of 
the  party  all  day,  suddenly  leaned  against  Saba 
Rookwood's  shoulder  and  began  to  sob. 

"I  ask  you  to  drink  to  those  who  cannot  be 
with  us  here  to-day — because  they  are  attending 
to  our  business  elsewhere — our  fellows  at  the 
front!" 


Defeat  Calls  265 

Across  the  table-cloth  Annabel  Cleeve  and  I 
stared  at  each  other  dry-eyed. 

"Here's  to  their  speedy  and  safe  return!" 
cried  Captain  Clinton,  holding  his  glass  aloft  so 
that  the  wine  shone  and  sparkled  in  the  sunshine 
like  liquid  topaz.  "Now  you  kids  give  three  tre- 
mendous cheers  for  them,  and  maybe  they  '11  hear 
the  echoes  in  Buluwayo. " 

That  saved  the  situation.  The  men's  strong 
Hurrahs!"  mingling  with  the  children's  cheery 
voices,  rang  and  echoed  among  the  rocks  and 
hills.  Emotion  was  pushed  out  of  sight  once  more, 
and  faces  became  calm.  It  appeared  too  that 
Colonel  Blow  had  not  finished  the  giving  of  toasts. 
He  got  up  once  again,  his  face  wreathed  in 
smiles. 

"And  I  want  you  all  to  drink  the  health,"  he 
began,  "of  some  one  here  who  has  been  the  sun- 
shine of  our  darkest  days,  and  the  brightest  star  of 
many  a  weary  night;  who  has  minded  the  babies 
and  made  coffee  for  the  patrol  boys,  and  generally 
kept  us  all  from  dying  of  sheer  boredom  and 
hatred  of  life  just  by  her  lovely  presence  amongst 
us.  I  am  sure  you  all  know  who  I  mean. " 

I  'm  sure  /  did  n't.  I  stared  round  the  table  in  as- 
tonishment, and  to  see  what  the  others  were  think- 
ing of  this  unlooked-for  enthusiasm  on  the  part  of 
the  usually  sedate  and  sensible  Commandant.  Was 
he  dreaming,  or  was  he  infatuated  with  one  of  the 
women,  and  simply  drivelling  about  her?  I  had 
never  noticed  him  paying  any  special  attention  to 


266  The  Claw 

any  one — he  always  seemed  to  be  so  busy.  Any- 
way, I  felt  quite  annoyed  about  it,  and  especially 
cross  about  the  babies,  whom  I  had  looked  upon 
as  my  own  particular  loves.  He  raised  his  glass 
on  high. 

"  I  drink  to  Miss  Deirdre  Saurin !" 

"And  drink  it  on  the  table!"  some  one  shouted, 
and  every  one  got  up  once  more  and  put  dirty 
boot  on  Mrs.  Burney's  nice  table-cloth  and  made 
a  tremendous  noise,  while  I  stared  at  them. 
When  I  realised  what  they  were  saying  I  went  hot 
with  vexation  and  embarrassment,  for  I  felt  sure 
they  were  making  fun  of  me. 

"Respond!  Respond!"  they  cried  all  round 
me. 

"I  never  heard  of  anything  so  ridiculous  in  my 
life, "  I  said  crossly.  "And  utterly  uncalled  for. " 
I  threw  Colonel  Blow  a  glance  of  the  utmost  in- 
dignation. "  I  think  you  want  to  make  every  one 
hate  me!"  I  said. 

He  merely  shouted  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  I  know  I  'm  a  wonder,  but  I  could  n't  do 
that,"  he  said,  and  to  my  amazement  the  women 
all  rushed  at  me  and  hugged  me  and  made  me 
feel  as  hot  and  stuffy  and  cross  as  possible. 

When  I  say  all,  I  don't  of  course  mean  that  the 
Salisbury  women  did  anything  of  the  kind.  Mir- 
acles do  not  happen  in  modern  times.  But  I  was 
not  surprised  that  they  got  up  in  a  group  and 
strolled  off  sniffing  disdainfully.  The  whole  thing 
was  ridiculous  and  absurd. 


Defeat  Calls  267 

"You  Ve  quite  spoiled  my  day,"  I  said  to 
Colonel  Blow  afterwards.  He  insisted  upon  tak- 
ing me  to  see  some  wonderful  drawings  on  a  rock 
which  he  said  only  he  and  one  other  man  knew 
about ;  and  when  we  got  there  they  were  the  same 
old  drawings  Mrs.  Marriott  and  I  had  been 
looking  at  in  the  morning.  So  we  sat  on  top  of  the 
rock  and  I  continued  my  upbraidings. 

"  Of  course  it  was  very  kind  of  you  and  all  that, 
and  I  dare  say  you  meant  well — but  I  never 
felt  more  uncomfortable  in  my  life,  and  I  cannot 
say  I  feel  the  least  bit  grateful  to  you.  I  made 
sure  you  were  talking  about  some  woman  you  had 
fallen  in  love  with  and  expected  every  one  else  to 
do  the  same, "  I  continued  in  my  most  unpleasant 
voice. 

"Well,  so  I  was,"  he  had  the  effrontery  to  say. 
"But  of  course  I  know  there  is  no  hope  for  me." 

I  stared  at  him  coldly.  I  really  did  not  feel 
disposed  for  any  more  jesting.  But  his  face  had 
not  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  it,  and  he  continued 
quite  gravely: 

"I  saw  you  kiss  Kinsella  the  night  he  went, 
and  of  course  I  understood  that  a  girl  like 
you  would  not  have  done  that  except  for  one 
reason.  So  it  can  be  of  no  use  my  telling  you 
that  I  love  you.  Yet  I  want  to  tell  you  if 
you  don't  mind,  and  to  call  you  Deirdre  once. 
May  I,  Deirdre?" 

I  really  don't  remember  what  I  said,  but  I  was 
frightfully  surprised  and  sorry.  I  don't  believe  I 


268  The  Claw 

said  anything.  Perhaps  I  sat  and  stared  at  him 
with  my  mouth  open.  I  only  know  that  we  came 
out  of  it  sworn  friends. 

Afterwards  we  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  highest 
of  the  rocks  to  get  a  view  of  the  whole  wide  veldt 
lying  shimmering  in  the  sunshine  with  far-off 
hazes  and  veils  of  purple  and  amethyst,  draped 
about  the  horizon  like  the  robes  of  a  god. 

As  we  stood  looking  a  cloud  of  dust  appeared 
upon  the  road,  and  presently  we  made  out  the  fig- 
ure of  a  man  on  a  light  horse  approaching  the 
camp.  He  was  coming  from  the  west  and,  there- 
fore, towards  Fort  George,  and  when  we  realised 
this  we  knew  that  he  was  not  from  the  town,  but 
from  the  front — some  one  with  news. 

Colonel  Blow  jumped  up,  and  forgetting  good 
manners  and  me  ran  for  the  edge  of  the  rock  and 
began  to  climb  down  as  fast  as  he  could.  But  I 
as  swiftly  followed  him,  and  when  he  reached  level 
ground  I  was  there  too.  Then  we  took  hands  and 
frankly  ran  for  the  camp,  stumbling  over  ruts  and 
stones,  and  tripping  in  ant-bear  holes,  but  cover- 
ing the  ground  at  a  speed  I  had  never  achieved 
before  except  in  an  express  train.  But  in  spite 
of  our  haste  the  newcomer  had  arrived  first,  and 
we  found  him  dismounted,  standing  at  the  head 
of  a  pale-coloured  drooping  horse,  with  every  one 
in  the  camp  clustered  round  him.  I  remember 
thinking  that  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen 
a  horse  that  looked  so  exactly  like  the  pale- 
coloured  horse  Death  is  supposed  to  ride  when  he 


Defeat  Calls  269 

goes  abroad.     E  wondered  what  made  me  think 
of  it  at  that  moment. 

I  did  not  recognise  the  man's  face  as  one  I 
had  ever  seen;  but  when  Mrs.  Burney  rushed 
forward  and  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  I 
realised  that  this  was  her  husband,  whom  I 
had  often  seen  before.  Yes :  it  was  Robert  Burney 
the  scout !  Yet  why  should  dust  and  fatigue  and 
a  stubbly  beard  so  terribly  alter  a  man  as  he 
was  altered?  It  is  true  that  his  coat  hung  in  tat- 
ters, we  could  see  his  bare  feet  through  his  ragged 
boots,  and  his  cheek-bones  seemed  almost  piercing 
through  his  cheeks.  But  as  he  stood  there  looking 
at  us  I  realised  that  it  was  in  his  eyes  that  the 
change  lay.  I  never  saw  a  man  with  such  hard,  calm 
eyes.  If  it  had  been  a  woman  who  stood  there  with 
those  eyes  I  should  have  believed  that  she  had  wept 
until  she  had  no  more  tears,  and  could  never  weep 
again.  But  this  man's  iron  face,  haggard  and 
weary  though  it  seemed,  was  not  one  that  could 
be  associated  with  tears.  Yet  it  is  true  that  when 
I  looked  into  the  fearless,  still  eyes  of  Robert  Bur- 
ney I  thought  of  tears — tears  that  were  frozen  in 
the  heart  and  would  never  be  shed.  Neither  were 
they  dumb,  those  eyes  of  his  that  were  so  calm. 
When  we  had  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, some  knowledge  leaped  out  to  us  from  them 
and  entered  into  our  very  hearts,  paling  our  faces 
and  chilling  our  blood  so  that  we  stood  there 
shivering  in  the  warm  sunshine  while  we  waited 
for  him  to  speak.  Fear  had  us  by  the  throat, 


270  The  Claw 

and  in  the  heart  of  every  one  "terror  was  lying 
still!" 

Some  name  trembled  on  every  lip,  and  each  one 
of  us  longed  to  shout  a  question :  but  tongue  clave 
to  palate,  lips  were  too  dry  to  open.  It  was  re- 
vealed to  us  in  some  strange  way  that  Robert 
Burney  had  more  to  tell  than  the  mere  fate  of 
one  man. 

At  last  he  moistened  with  his  tongue  his  cracked 
and  dust-thickened  lips,  and  spoke  quietly : 

"A  lot  of  our  fellows  have  been  surrounded  and 
cut  up." 

No  one  cried  out.  No  one  fainted.  We  just 
stood  there  quietly  round  him,  staring  into  his  eyes 
and  listening.  No  one  wept,  except  Mrs.  Burney, 
who  had  her  man  safe  back  in  her  arms. 

"Wilson  from  Victoria — Alan  Wilson,  with 
eighteen  men,  went  across  the  Shangani  River  on 
the  King's  spoor.  We  understood  that  the  King 
was  deserted  all  but  a  few  hundred  men,  and 
Major  Wilson  was  to  see  how  the  land  lay.  His 
idea  was  to  get  the  King  that  night  if  possible 
and  bring  him  in;  but  when  he  reached  the  scherms 
it  was  too  late  and  too  dark  to  do  anything;  only, 
he  saw  that  the  numbers  round  Lobengula  had 
been  underrated,  and  that  the  natives  were 
threatening  and  hostile.  He  sent  Napier  back 
with  information  to  Major  Forbes  for  reinforce- 
ments, but  Major  Forbes  did  not  think  it  safe 
to  move  that  night  and  sent  Captain  Borrow 
instead  with  twenty  men.  Ingram  and  I  had 


Defeat  Calls  271 

already  gone  on  ahead  and  joined  Wilson,  and 
when  Borrow  reached  us  we  were  camped  out  in 
the  bush  about  half  a  mile  away  from  the  King's 
scherms.  We  lay  there  all  night  under  arms,  in 
pitch  darkness  and  drenching  rain;  we  could  hear 
the  voices  of  the  natives  in  the  bush  round  us. 
Several  hours  of  the  night  Major  Wilson  and  I 
spent  in  trying  to  find  three  men  who  were  lost. 
They  had  got  separated  from  the  rest  of  us,  and 
Wilson  would  n't  rest  till  he  knew  they  were  all 
right.  It  was  so  dark  that  I  had  to  feel  for  the 
spoor  with  my  hands,  and  eventually  we  found 
them  by  calling  out  their  names  continually  but 
very  softly,  and  we  got  back  to  camp  together. 

''With  the  first  glint  of  dawn  we  saddled  up 
and  rode  down  to  the  King's  waggon  again,  and 
Major  Wilson  called  in  a  loud  voice  to  Lobengula 
to  come  out  and  surrender.  Immediately  we 
were  answered  by  the  rattle  of  guns,  and  a  heavy 
fire!  They  had  evidently  been  'laying'  for  us. 
We  dismounted  and  returned  the  fire,  but  as  soon 
as  the  natives  began  trying  to  get  round  us  we 
mounted  and  retreated  about  six  hundred  yards, 
when  we  again  dismounted  and  returned  the 
fire  from  behind  our  horses.  Then  as  they 
began  to  take  to  the  bush  round  us  we  rode 
off  again.  Two  of  our  horses  had  been  shot,  so 
two  horses  had  to  carry  double. 

"We  rode  slowly  down  the  spoor  made  by  the 
King's  waggons  the  night  before,  Major  Wilson  and 
Captain  Borrow  behind  us  consulting  as  to  what 


272  The  Claw 

to  do.  Major  Wilson  then  called  me  and  asked 
me  to  ride  back  and  get  the  main  column  to  come 
on  at  once  with  the  Maxims.  I  rode  off  with  two 
other  men,  and  we  had  n't  gone  a  hundred  yards 
when  hordes  of  Matabele  rushed  out  on  us  from 
the  bush  ahead,  waving  their  assegais  and  yelling. 
We  galloped  to  the  left  where  the  river  lay,  and  by 
hard  riding  got  away  through  a  shower  of  bullets. 

"When  we  got  to  the  river  we  found  it  in 
flood,  and  we  had  to  swim  over.  Of  course,  it  was 
too  late  then  for  the  main  column  to  cross. 

"Immediately  after  we  got  away  from  the  last 
lot  of  natives  we  heard  Wilson  and  his  party 
come  up  to  them,  and  heavy  firing  commenced. 
I  looked  back  just  before  we  got  out  of  sight  and 
saw  that  our  fellows  were  surrounded. 

"  There  must  have  been  thousands  .  .  .  our 
men  in  an  open  space  without  cover  of  any  kind 
.  .  .  surrounded  by  those  shouting,  ferocious 
devils  mad  for  revenge ! 

"They  were  the  pick  of  our  forces — the  very 
flower — thirty-four  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the 
country — in  the  world!" 

He  paused  a  little  while,  and  his  throat  moved 
in  a  curious  way  that  fascinated  my  eyes,  so  that 
I  could  not  think  about  his  news,  but  only  about 
what  was  choking  him. 

"It  is  still  hoped  that  some  of  them  escaped. 
But  I  don't  think  so.  .  .  It  is  true  that  some 
of  them  might  possibly  have  got  away — if  they 
had  tried.  By  hard  riding  those  with  the  best 


Defeat  Calls  273 

mounts  might,  but  they  were  not  the  kind  of  men 
to  leave  their  chums.  No :  you  can  take  it  from  me 
they  fought  it  out  there — side  by  side — to  the 
bitter  end. 

"But  before  that  end  came  you  can  believe 
that  they  put  up  a  fight  that  the  natives  of  this 
country  will  never  forget.  I  guess  they  showed 
those  devils  how  brave  men  can  die." 

After  a  long  time  some  one  spoke.  Some  one 
had  the  fearful  courage  to  stammer  from  twisted 
lips  a  question : 

"Who  were  they?     Tell  us  the  names. " 

Robert  Burney's  steady  glance  passed  from 
face  to  face,  and  he  gave  us  the  names. 

"Alan  Wilson,"  he  repeated  lingeringly,  as 
though  he  loved  the  sound  of  those  two  words; 
and  there  is  indeed  something  gallant-sounding, 
something  intrepid  and  chivalrous,  in  the  rhythm 
of  that  man's  name  whom  other  men  so  much  loved 
—that  dauntless  leader  who  instilled  the  spirit  of 
courageous  adventure  and  loyal  comradeship  into 
every  one  with  whom  he  came  in  contact ;  whose 
comrades  so  loved  him  that  it  is  certain  they 
followed  him  to  death  as  gaily  as  they  would  have 
ridden  by  his  side  to  victory. 

"Alan  Wilson  —  Borrow  —  Kirton  —  Judd  — 
Greenfield—  Sometimes  he  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  he  never  repeated  a  name  twice  and  he 
gave  us  every  one  of  the  thirty-four.  Some  one 
checked  them  off,  slowly  and  relentlessly,  like  a 
clock  ticking  and  bringing  us  at  each  tick  nearer 

18 


274  The  Claw 

to  some  dreadful  doom.  When  he  had  finished  a 
sigh  passed  over  us  like  a  ghostly  wind. 

Some  of  them  were  names  we  knew  well;  some 
we  had  never  heard  before;  all  were  names  to  be 
thereafter  written  in  our  memories,  and  in  letters 
of  scarlet  and  gold  across  the  deathless  page  of 
Fame.  In  other  places  many  a  woman's  head 
would  be  bowed  to  the  dust,  many  a  bereaved 
heart  torn  and  broken,  while  yet  it  thrilled  with 
pride  for  the  glorious  "Last  Stand"  of  those 
thirty-four  dauntless  men. 

But  for  most  of  us  standing  there,  hanging  upon 
the  words  of  Robert  Burney,  breathing  heavily 
after  every  name  as  from  a  deathblow  escaped, 
all  that  it  seemed  possible  to  feel  at  that  moment 
was  a  savage  joy ;  a  joy  so  painful  that  it  seemed 
as  if  it  must  burst  the  heart  that  felt  it. 

God  knows  we  grudged  Fame  to  none  for  their 
noble  dead.  We  mourned  with  them,  and  would 
weep  for  them.  But  at  first,  just  at  first,  in  that 
great  pain  of  relief,  we  could  not  help  that  little 
ghostly  sighing  wind  of  relief  and  thanks  that 
escaped  from  our  dry  lips — thanks  to  God  for  the 
omission  of  the  special  name  we  loved  from  that 
terrible  roll-call  of  Honour. 

Alas !  for  one  among  us  who  could  not  so  thank 
God — for  the  wife  of  one  of  the  only  two  married 
men  who  fell  with  that  heroic  band.  When  we 
realised  what  had  befallen  her  we  gathered  round 
her.  We  could  do  nothing  to  comfort  her.  No 
one  tried  to  beguile  her  from  her  grief  with  words. 


Defeat  Calls  275 

But  it  seemed  a  kind  thing  to  do  to  shelter 
her  stricken  eyes  from  the  gay  and  flaunting 
sunshine. 

All  was  not  yet  told.  There  had  been  other 
engagements.  After  the  loss  of  the  Wilson  patrol 
the  main  column  had  retreated  down  the  Shan- 
gani  River  to  Umhlangeni,  and  all  the  way  were 
continuously  attacked.  Moreover,  they  had  run 
short  of  food  and  been  forced  to  eat  some  of  their 
horses ;  their  boots  had  given  out ;  many  of  them 
were  obliged  to  march  with  their  broken  feet 
thrust  into  the  regulation  leather  wallets;  fever 
also  had  attacked  them.  Another  list  of  casual- 
ties was  necessarily  attached  to  this  retreat.  One 
of  the  nice  cheeky  boys  had  been  killed;  Mrs. 
Shand's  husband  wounded;  Dr.  Marriott — 

When  Burney  came  to  this  name  his  eyes  rested 
for  a  moment  on  Mrs.  Marriott's  listening  face, 
and  by  something  that  came  into  his  expression  I 
knew  that  his  news  for  her  was  of  the  worst.  God 
knows  if  she  too  read  his  look  aright,  but  she  was 
the  first  to  speak: 

"What  news  of  my  husband,  Mr.  Burney?" 

For  a  moment  Robert  Burney's  voice  stuck  in 
his  throat ;  then  he  spoke  out  clearly,  looking  at  the 
fragile,  ashen-faced  woman  with  actually  the  glint 
of  a  smile  on  his  face,  for  as  a  brave  man  he  had  a 
kind  of  joy  in  saying  what  he  did. 

"He  died  a  splendid  death,  Mrs.  Marriott, 
saving  Dick  Saurin's  life." 

Elizabeth  Marriott  showed  that  she  was  made 


276  The  Claw 

of  the  material  of  which  heroes'  wives  should 
be  made.  She  smiled  too — a  proud,  bright,  almost 
a  gay  smile.  Then  she  turned  to  me  and  said 
softly  so  that  no  one  heard  but  I : 

"That  is  my  gift  to  you,  Deirdre  Saurin." 

I  kissed  her,  and  my  tears  streamed  down  my 
face,  falling  upon  hers;  but  suddenly  they  were 
dried  in  my  eyes,  and  I  could  weep  no  more. 
Some  fateful  words,  spoken  almost  brokenly  by 
Robert  Burney,  had  fallen  upon  my  ears: 

"Tony  Kinsella  is  missing." 

It  was  as  though  some  one  had  thrust  a  sword 
into  my  heart  and  I  could  feel  the  life-blood  ebbing 
away  from  me,  leaving  me  cold — cold  as  some 
frozen  thing  in  the  Arctic  Sea.  Though  the  sun 
shone  so  gaily  upon  us  there  I  shivered  with  bitter 
cold. 


It  was  a  desolate  home-coming.  As  soon  as  the 
sun  went  down  a  mass  of  slate-coloured  clouds 
that  had  been  crouching  in  the  south-west  like 
some  stealthy  winged  monster  waiting  to  pounce, 
spread  itself  out  swiftly  and  enshrouded  us  in 
grey,  misty  rain. 

The  men  hurriedly  inspanned  and  urged  us  into 
the  shelter  of  the  waggons,  then  started  to  walk 
ahead  in  silent,  gloomy  groups.  No  woman  walked, 
except  Mrs.  Burney;  we  could  see  her  far  behind, 
clinging  to  her  husband's  arm,  gazing  into  his 
face,  caring  nothing  for  rain — why  should  she? 


Defeat  Calls  277 

Mrs.  Rookwood,  proud  to  have  been  asked  to  do 
so,  minded  the  Burney  baby  and  tried  to  hide  the 
gladness  of  her  eyes  from  those  who  had  little 
enough  cause  to  rejoice.  Her  news  had  been 
good ;  George  Rookwood  had  done  well  and  was  re- 
turning on  some  special  errand  in  a  day  or  two. 

The  children  were  bunched  together  in  a  little 
scarlet  cluster  at  the  end  of  the  waggon,  watching 
silent  and  wide-eyed  two  of  their  number  who  were 
weeping  huddled  against  their  mother.  She  sat 
between  them  with  a  white,  thoughtful  face  on 
which  there  was  no  sign  of  tears,  though  her  news 
had  been  bad  enough  to  wipe  all  hope  and  joy 
from  her  life. 

"Hush,  children,"  she  kept  gently  repeating. 
"  We  don't  know  for  certain.  .  .  .  Mr.  Burney 
said  there  might  be  ...  that  some  thought  there 
was  still  hope  ...  we  can't  be  sure  .  .  .  but  if 
it  is — if  he  should  be — he  would  like  us  to  take  it 
bravely — not  to — not  to  make  a  fuss  .  .  .  but  I 
don't  think  it  can  be  true  .  .  .  surely  it  can't 
be  true."  Her  afflicted  eyes  searched  our  faces 
for  some  gleam  of  hope.  But  we  had  none  to 
give.  We  were  fighting  each  our  own  devils  of 
despair. 

The  mental  exaltation  that  had  sustained  Mrs. 
Marriott  had  given  place  to  physical  exhaustion 
and  she  lay  against  my  shoulder  with  a  strange 
heaviness,  still  as  a  stone,  her  eyes  closed.  Anna- 
bel Cleeve  fainted  quietly,  twice,  before  we 
reached  home,  and  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  and 


278  The  Claw 

Mrs.  Valetta  did  what  they  could  for  her.  But 
the  latter' s  pale,  haunted  face  was  not  one  in 
which  to  seek  comfort.  Once  her  glance  crossed 
mine  like  a  rapier  flash,  but  I  was  sick  and  cold 
with  pain,  and  had  neither  pity  nor  disdain  in 
my  heart  for  her.  My  mind  was  busy  with  its 
own  misery.  I  was  striving  to  "rear  the  change- 
ling Hope  in  the  black  cave  of  Despair."  My 
thoughts  set  me  in  torment,  and  I  could  remember 
nothing  but  the  words  of  Robert  Burney : 

"He  was  last  heard  of  out  scouting  with  two 
other  men  near  the  Shangani  River.  They  were 
surrounded  and  attacked  by  a  party  of  twelve 
natives  armed  with  rifles  and  assegais.  One  of 
them,  Britton,  managed  to  get  away  and  ride  to 
the  main  column  for  help,  and  when  he  got  back 
with  a  patrol  an  hour  later  the  other  fellow,  Vin- 
cent, was  lying  there  wounded,  surrounded  by  the 
bodies  of  dead  natives,  but  Kinsella  was  nowhere 
to  be  found — and  has  never  been  heard  of  or 
seen  since.  Vincent  could  tell  nothing  but  that 
just  before  he  became  unconscious  Kinsella  was 
still  standing  over  his  body  shooting — 

Not  to  know!  Not  to  know!  Torturing  vis- 
ions stole  upon  me;  visions  of  men  lying  wounded 
to  death;  parched  with  bitter  thirst;  waiting, 
waiting  for  reinforcements  that  never  came;  for 
help  that  would  never  come! 

Then  the  terrible  yet  merciful  remembrance 
that  it  was  all  so  long  ago !  Many,  many  days  had 
passed  since  it  happened.  If  those  splendid, 


Defeat  Calls  279 

heroic  men  lay  there  still  they  must  be  of  the 
great,  noble  company  of  the  dead.  I  looked  up 
at  the  grey  arch  above  me,  blurred  and  dim  with 
rain,  and  thinking  of  the  unsheltered  dead,  lying 
with  eyes  wide  open  to  the  skies,  was  thankful  that 
it  fell  so  gently  and  pityingly  down. 

"  O  loved  ones  lying  far  away, 

What  word  of  love  can  dead  lips  send? 
O  wasted  dust!     O  senseless  clay! 
f       Is  this  the  end?     Is  this  the  end? 

"  Peace,  peace!  we  wrong  the  noble  dead 

To  vex  their  solemn  slumber  so. 
Though  childless  and  with  thorn-crowned  head 
Up  the  steep  path  must  England  go " 

I  could  not  remember  at  that  moment  who 
wrote  those  great  lines.  I  only  know  that  I 
thought  there  was  strange  healing  in  them  for 
mourning  hearts.  There  seemed  suddenly  some- 
thing peaceful  in  the  thought  of  Death;  some- 
thing that  lulled  and  dulled  the  active  burning 
pain  of  uncertainty. 

There  seemed  even  a  kind  of  mercy  in  Eliza- 
beth Marriott's  definite  tidings,  terrible  as  they 
were.  She  knew  at  least  that  her  man  was  at  rest 
from  torment;  suffering  was  done  with  him;  pain 
had  been  defeated. 

But — Not  to  know!    Not  to  know! 

Before  twelve  o'clock  that  night  Maurice  Stair 
came  to  me  and  told  me  that  he  had  determined 


280  The  Claw 

to  leave  at  once  with  two  good  colonial  boys, 
Jacob  and  Jonas,  to  find  Anthony  Kinsella  if 
possible,  or  at  least  get  definite  tidings  of  his 
fate. 

"If  he  is  alive  I  '11  bring  him  back,"  he  said,  in 
the  quiet,  modest  way  I  had  always  found  so 
attractive  in  him,  and  kissing  the  hand  I  gave 
him  he  went  on  his  way. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WITCH  CALLS 

"Pain  is  the  lord  of  this  world,  nor  is  there  any  one  who 
escapes  from  its  net. " 

WITHIN  the  next  few  weeks  many  of  our  men 
came  home.    Not  as  we  had  cheered  them 
forth,  in  a  gay  band: 

"Brilliant  and  gallant  and  brave!" 

— but  ragged,  haggard,  footsore,  dragged  by  or 
dragging  half-starved  horses ;  many  of  them  with 
rheumatism  planted  for  ever  in  their  joints,  and 
malaria  staring  from  their  eyes. 

Fort  George  was  a  busy  place  again.  Wives 
worn  with  watching  and  waiting  in  suspense, 
braced  themselves  afresh  to  the  task  of  nursing 
sick  husbands,  while  those  who  had  no  men-folk 
of  their  own  on  the  spot  were  hastily  spanned-in 
by  the  hospital  sisters  who  had  more  than  they 
could  do  in  the  over-crowded  little  hospital 
amongst  the  husbands  and  sons  and  lovers  of 
women  far  away.  Most  of  these  were  "travellers 

281 


282  The  Claw 

who  had  sold  their  lands  to  see  other  men's," 
as  Rosalind  puts  it,  and  possessed  of  the  accom- 
panying qualifications — "rich  eyes  and  empty 
hands!"  Many  of  them  were  just  members  of 
that  great  Legion  of  the  Lost  ones  always  to  be 
found  in  the  advance-guard  of  pioneer  bands — 
the  men  who  have  strayed  far  from  the  fold  of 
home  and  love  and  women-folk. 

"  The  little  black  sheep  who  have  gone  astray, 
The  damned  bad  sorts  who  have  lost  their  way." 

The  nursing  to  be  done  amongst  these  cases 
was  of  the  most  difficult  kind,  for  there  was  no 
co-operation  from  the  patient.  Most  of  them 
did  n't  care  a  brass  button  whether  they  recovered 
or  not.  They  were  tired,  disappointed,  blase  men, 
and  their  attitude  towards  life  could  be  summed 
up  in  one  brief  potent  phrase  that  was  often  on 
their  lips:  "Sick  of  it!" 

The  war  had  been  a  disappointment  in  many 
ways.  It  is  true  that  the  work  had  been  ac- 
complished. The  Matabele  were  broken  and 
dispersed,  and  life  in  the  country  was  now  secure. 
But  the  war  had  not  been  the  glorious  cam- 
paign anticipated.  The  quiet  honour  of  hav- 
ing done  his  duty  belonged  to  every  man  of 
them;  there  was  glory  for  few  save  those  whose 
ears  would  never  more  hear  blame  or  praise. 
There  had  been  no  big,  wild,  battles,  force  closing 
with  force:  only  "potting  and  being  potted" 
they  complained. 


The  Witch  Calls  283 

"  Sniped  at  from  the  bush  when  they  were  n't 
looking!  No  loot,  no  sport,  nothing  but  fever  and 
sore  feet,  and  hunger,  and  disgust,  and  lost 
pals!" 

Ah!  that  was  the  rub!  There  lay  the  sting! 
When  they  thought  of  the  thirty-four  men  whose 
bones  lay  bleaching  in  the  rain  beyond  Shangani 
they  turned  their  faces  to  the  wall  and  some  of 
them  died.  The  price  of  the  campaign  had  been 
too  high! 

The  whole  thing  was  one  of  Africa's  sweet  little 
mirages,  others  told  me  as  I  sat  by  their  beds — 
one  of  her  charming  little  games,  and  her  rotten 
cotton  ways.  In  changing  moods  and  tenses  that 
varied  from  raving  delirium  to  a  painful  clarity  of 
thought  their  cry  was  unanimous  and  unchanging : 
"Sick  of  it!" 

First  and  last  and  always  they  were  sick  of 
Africa,  and  "on  the  side"  as  Mr.  Hunloke  phrased 
it,  they  were  sick  of  "bucketting  and  being  buck- 
etted  about  all  over  the  shop ;  of  bad  whiskey ;  of  no 
whiskey;  of  sore  feet;  of  veldt  sores;  of  fever;  of 
mosquitoes;  of  never  getting  any  letters  from 
home ;  of  getting  letters  from  home  that  contained 
plenty  of  good  advice  but  no  tin;  of  the  rot- 
tenness of  the  country;  of  the  whole  d d  show; 

of  life  in  general. 

"There  's  nothing  in  it, "  they  said,  and  uttering 
that  bitter  brief  indictment  more  of  them  died. 
Others  by  slow  degrees  recovered  and  began  to 
quote  bits  of  Barrack-Room  Ballads  and  cynical 


284  The  Claw 

lines  from  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  to  the  nurse  in 
charge. 

They  are  a  poetical  people — these  black  sheep 
and  travellers.  Nearly  all  of  them  carry  about, 
hidden  in  the  deeps  of  their  hearts  verses,  tag- 
ends  of  sonnets,  valiant  lines  from  the  men's  poets 
—Byron,  Henley,  Kipling,  Gordon;  and  I  learned 
to  find  it  not  strange  that  even  on  profane  lips 
the  lines  were  always  of  the  strong  and  chivalrous 
and  the  pure  in  heart. 

Mrs.  Valetta  and  I  found  ourselves  in  daily 
touch  with  each  other  at  the  hospital  huts.  We 
were  the  only  ones  left  of  the  Salisbury  group. 
Anna  Cleeve  had  gone  back,  on  hearing  that  her 
fiance  had  arrived  in  Salisbury  ill  of  fever,  and 
later  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  departed  in  the 
mail-coach,  seated  amongst  a  hundred  parcels 
which  she  had  been  obliged  to  stage-manage 
herself,  as  Monty,  appearing  to  think  that  martial 
law  and  marital  responsibility  ended  together, 
had  bestowed  the  favour  of  his  company  upon 
two  strangers  who  owned  a  comfortable  spring 
waggon  and  were  bent  on  getting  some  sable- 
antelope  shooting. 

By  the  first  coach  that  came  down  there  had 
been  a  letter  from  Judy  urging  me  to  join  her  as 
soon  as  possible,  but  at  the  time  it  did  not  seem 
the  best  thing  to  do.  There  was  no  special  work 
for  me  in  Salisbury,  while  in  Fort  George  there 
was  much.  Moreover,  I  had  put  out  too  many 
roots  and  fronds  to  be  able  to  detach  myself  easily 


The  Witch  Calls  285 

from  the  place  where  Anthony  Kinsella  had  left  me 
and  told  me  to  wait  until  he  came.  Judy's  letters 
became  more  pressing  after  the  return  to  Salisbury 
of  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  and  Anna  Cleeve.  It 
transpired  that  with  implacable  malice  they  had 
given  to  all  who  cared  to  listen  their  version  of  my 
parting  with  Anthony  Kinsella.  Judy  flew  to  pen 
and  paper  to  let  me  know  that  my  "infatuation 
for  Tony  Kinsella"  was  the  most  interesting  topic 
of  conversation  in  Salisbury,  and  that  the  kindest 
thing  any  one  found  to  say  was:  "What  a  pity  he 
is  already  married!" 

Dick  who  had  returned  from  Buluwayo  wrote 
that  he  was  coming  down  as  soon  as  an  injured 
hip  and  a  broken  arm  would  permit  to  see  Mrs. 
Marriott  before  she  left  for  England,  and  tell  her 
all  he  could  about  her  husband's  splendid  death. 
He  had  some  plan  to  discuss  with  her,  too,  about 
the  farm  of  six  thousand  acres  which  was  her 
husband's  share  as  a  volunteer.  Each  man  who 
went  to  the  front  was  entitled  to  a  farm  of  that 
size,  twenty  gold  claims,  and  a  share  of  the  cattle 
captured. 

Dick's  idea  was  to  take  care  of  this  property 
for  Mrs.  Marriott,  and  to  put  all  his  energy  into 
enhancing  its  value  for  the  benefit  of  the  woman 
who  had  been  widowed  for  his  sake.  Incidentally, 
he  wrote  that  he  hoped  I  would  return  with  him  to 
Salisbury.  But  my  sister-in-law,  who  wrote  by  the 
same  mail,  coldly  advocated  a  return  to  Johannes- 
burg and  the  wing  of  Elizabet  von  Stohl. 


286  The  Claw 

"You  can  never  live  down  the  scandal  that  is 
being  talked  about  you,"  she  said.  "There  will 
always  be  a  tale  attached  to  you,  and  all  the  fast 
men  in  the  country  will  want  to  flirt  with  you  on 
the  strength  of  it.  Besides,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  when  Tony  Kinsella  comes  back — for  he  will 
come  back  of  course. " 

I  thanked  her  much  for  that!  Gladly  I  for- 
gave 'her  all  the  rest  for  the  sake  of  that  last 
little  sentence  that  had  slipped  with  such  con- 
viction from  her  pen.  It  was  true  that  every 
one  felt  so  about  Anthony  Kinsella:  he  was  such 
an  alive,  ardent  personality,  it  was  impossible  to 
believe  him  dead. 

"Of  course  he  will  come  back,"  was  what  they 
all  said.  Claude  Hunloke  went  further. 

"Tony  Kinsella  is  a  slick  guy!"  he  announced. 
"I  tell  you  he  has  got  cast-iron  fastenings.  No- 
thing can  ever  break  him  loose." 

"And  I  know  that  it  is  true,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"He  will  come  back.  Then  every  one  will  know 
the  truth  about  us";  and  I  crushed  down  doubt 
and  dismay.  Africa  put  her  gift  into  my  heart 
and  wrote  her  sign  upon  my  brow. 

I  was  minding  Tommy  Dennison  at  about  this 
time — a  jaundiced-coloured  skeleton  in  a  very 
bad  way  with  black-water  fever.  He  was  one  of 
the  patients  who  had  overflowed  from  the  hospi- 
tal into  a  private  hut  for  special  nursing.  So  I 
tended  him  under  the  instructions  and  supervision 
of  the  hospital  sisters,  though  if  any  one  had  a 


The  Witch  Calls  287 

few  months  before  described  "black- water"  to 
me  and  told  me  I  should  ever  nurse  a  case  without 
blenching  and  shrivelling  at  the  task  I  should  have 
announced  a  false  prophet.  But  it  was  even  so. 
I  sat  by  him  through  the  wet,  hot  days,  listening 
to  the  drip  of  the  rain  from  the  thatch  and  the 
little  broken  bits  of  an  old  song  that  was  often, 
on  his  lips. 

"  Lay  me  low,  my  work  is  done, 

I  am  weary,  lay  me  low, 
Where  the  wild  flowers  woo  the  sun, 

Where  the  balmy  breezes  blow, 
Where  the  butterfly  takes  wing, 

Where  the  aspens  drooping  glow, 
Where  the  young  birds  chirp  and  sing, 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

11  I  have  striven  hard  and  long 

Always  with  a  stubborn  heart, 
Taking,  giving,  blow  for  blow, 

Brother,  I  have  played  my  part, 
And  am  weary,  let  me  go." 

At  intervals  he  raved,  fancying  himself  back  at 
Buluwayo  where  he  smelt  the  King's  kraal  burn- 
ing, and  heard  the  kaffir  dogs  making  night  hideous 
by  their  howling. 

"Oh!  will  some  of  you  fellows  kill  those 
dogs? — choke  'em — feed  'em  do  anything,  only 
let  me  sleep.  .  .  .  How  many  do  you  say?  six 


288  The  Claw 

hundred  of  them  starving  in  the  bush,  left  behind 
by  Loben.  .  .  .  Six  hundred!  .  .  .  Into 'the  val- 
ley of  death  .  .  .  rode  the  six  hundred!"  Then 
back  again  to  his  old  song : 

"  When  our  work  is  done,  't  is  best, 

Brother,  best  that  we  should  go, 
I  am  weary,  let  me  rest, 
I  am  weary,  let  me  go." 

Always,  always,  day  after  day,  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, he  muttered  those  lines  with  the  persistency 
of  the  delirious.  But  one  day  he  varied  them  to: 

"  Lay  me  weary,  I  am  low, 
I  am  low — I  Ve  never  done  any  work!  " 

and  smiling  at  me  with  his  fever-broken  lips, 
closed  his  eyes  for  ever.  Just  four  months 
after  he  had  sat  upon  the  summit  of  Anthony 
Kinsella's  hut  playing  subtly  upon  the  flute! 


My  brother  arrived  the  next  day — the  same  old 
kindly  tolerant  debonair  Dick  of  old;  but  yet 
with  some  of  his  gaiety  and  boyishness  wiped  from 
his  face  and  replaced  by  a  heavy  look  that  it 
saddened  me  strangely  to  see,  for  I  had  begun  to  re- 
cognise that  look  and  knew  that  it  meant  care.  His 
eye  had  a  strained  expression,  too;  and  when  I  saw 
that  his  arm  hung  useless  by  his  side,  and  that  he 
came  limping  towards  me,  I  burst  out  crying. 


The  Witch  Calls  289 

"Oh,  Dicky!"  I  cried.  "They  have  shot  you 
all  to  bits!" 

But  he  only  grinned. 

"Nonsense,  Goldie,  I'm  all  right.  What's  a 
chipped  arm  and  a  game  leg  if  they  're  not  the 
honours  of  war?  Some  of  the  fellows  have  n't 
a  thing  to  show  for  their  trouble.  These  are 
my  trophies.  I  'm  proud  of  'em.  I  show  'em 
round." 

"That 's  all  very  well,"  I  said,  still  sniffling  and 
mopping  up  my  tears,  "but  you  Ve  got  a  tem- 
perature too.  I  can  see  it  by  your  eyes. " 

"Oh!  a  little  bit  slack.  A  pinch  of  quinine  will 
put  me  right  with  the  world.  But,  Deirdre,  I  've 
some  fierce  news  for  you.  What  do  you  think 
the  last  mail  brought  me  but  an  announce- 
ment that  your  solicitor,  Morton,  had  skidooed 
with  every  rap  of  yours.  Betty  wrote  to  me 
in  a  fearful  state  about  it.  You  're  bust,  my 
child." 

"Dick!" 

"Yes,  every  red  cent!  We  don't  have  a  bit 
of  luck  about  the  dibs,  you  and  I.  It  turns 
out  that  he  has  only  been  keeping  things  going 
for  the  last  year  or  so,  by  borrowing  money  on  your 
securities;  then  just  as  things  began  to  look  too 
fishy,  and  discovery  had  to  come,  he  scooted  with 
the  fragments  that  remained  —  about  twelve 
baskets  full  I  don't  think,  and  Chancery  Lane 
knows  him  no  more.  But  wait  till  I  get  after  him ! 
Just  wait  till  I  have  got  things  fixed  up  all  right 

19 


290  The  Claw 

for  Mrs.  Marriott,  and  you  and  Judy!  I  '11  get 
after  him!  Not  that  I  suppose  I  shall  get  much 
out  of  him,  but  still 

The  cold-blooded  American  who  has  been  robbed 
of  a  dollar  gleamed  out  of  one  of  Dick's  eyes  and  a 
red  Indian  raging  for  the  scalp  of  his  foe  glared 
from  the  other. 

"If  he  's  got  anything  left  he  '11  belch  up  all 
right  when  I  get  him!"  he  announced  with  the 
conviction  of  a  Nemesis.  Presently  he  regained 
calmness. 

"You  must  come  up  and  live  with  me  and 
Judy,"  he  said.  "There  are  some  catamarans 
of  women  in  the  world,  Deirdre,  and  I  believe 
you  've  been  up  against  one  or  two,  but  they  're  not 
all  like  that.  There  are  some  jolly  nice  women  in 
Salisbury,  and  we  '11  put  the  rest  to  the  right- 
about, and  make  them  eat  up  their  silly  tales." 

"Dear  Dick,"  I  said,  "it  takes  a  real  reformed 
rake  like  you  to  be  truly  generous.  But  I  can't 
come  to  Salisbury. " 

"Why  not?  It  is  n't  like  you  to  run  away  from 
the  music. " 

"I  'm  not  going  to.  But  I  can't  leave  Fort 
George  yet. " 

He  looked  troubled  and  wistful,  but  asked  no 
more  questions.  He  was  too  much  a  believer  in 
the  family  integrity.  But  after  a  day  or  two, 
most  of  which  he  spent  with  Gerry  Deshon  and 
Colonel  Blow,  for  I  was  still  much  engaged  at  the 
hospital  and  had  only  the  evenings  for  him,  his 


The  Witch  Calls  291 

troubled  looks  disappeared.  Eventually,  having 
planned  with  Mrs.  Marriott  her  secure  future,  he 
was  ready  to  return  to  Salisbury. 

"I  shall  have  to  get  back,  Deirdre;  but  you  stay 
on  here  as  long  as  you  think  fit,  with  Mrs.  Burney. 
Blow  and  Deshon  will  mind  you  for  me;  and 
when  you  're  ready  to  come  on  to  Salisbury  send 
me  a  wire  and  I  '11  fetch  you. " 

A  morning  or  two  later  I  walked  up  and  down 
with  him  in  the  early  dawn,  before  the  post-office, 
waiting  for  the  mails  to  be  put  into  the  coach  that 
was  to  carry  him  away.  A  few  sard-coloured 
stars  lingered  regretfully  in  the  pale  sky.  Not 
until  his  foot  was  on  the  step  of  the  coach  did  he 
say  the  words  I  wished  to  hear  from  him,  but 
would  not  ask  for. 

"Goldie— of  course  I  Ve  heard  everything,  all 
about  it — it  seems  to  be  a  queer  tangle.  If  it 
were  any  other  fellow  I  'd  get  after  him — but 
Kinsella  is  straight — as  straight  a  man  as  there  is 
in  Africa.  If  he  has  let  you  believe  he  is  free, 
then  you  can  take  my  oath  he  is." 

I  could  have  kissed  his  feet  for  those  words,  and 
the  way  he  spoke  them — as  though  it  was  un- 
questionable that  Anthony  was  still  in  the  world. 
I  could  not  speak,  my  heart  was  too  full.  I  could 
only  look  at  him  gratefully  through  my  tears. 
He  patted  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Dear  old  girl,  don't  fret.     He  '11  turn  up. " 

I  did  not  have  time  to  fret :  there  was  too  much 
to  do.  Among  other  things  I  had  Mrs.  Marriott  to 


292  The  Claw 

pack  up  and  send  away  to  her  English  home  to 
those  who  would  tend  and  love  her  and  bring  her 
safely  through  her  coming  trial.  Her  last  words 
to  me  from  the  coach  were: 

"Deirdre,  I  know  I  shall  have  a  son  to  take  up 
life  where  poor  Rupert  laid  it  down:  and  I  think 
he  can  do  it  under  no  finer  name  than  Anthony. " 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  I  cried,  "and  then  you 
must  come  back  here  and  give  him  his  father's 
heritage.  It  's  going  to  be  a  splendid  heritage. 
Dick  will  see  to  that. " 

A  week  later  we  packed  off  the  little  woman 
whose  husband  still  lay  unburied  at  Shangani. 
She  was  taking  her  small  fatherless  tribe  to  her 
people  down-country,  and  was  then  coming  back  to 
earn  her  living  by  nursing.  Saba  Rookwood  and 
her  husband  were  travelling  with  the  same  wag- 
gons. They  had  been  married  that  morning,  and 
were  going  away  for  a  time  to  return  later  and 
start  farming  and  mining  in  the  Buluwayo  district. 

In  the  evening,  Gerry  Deshon,  Colonel  Blow, 
and  I  rode  to  their  first  outspan,  about  twelve 
miles  out  from  the  town,  and  had  supper  with 
them — a  sad,  affectionate  little  farewell  supper, 
sitting  round  an  old  black  kettle  that  was  propped 
up  by  two  tall  stones  over  the  red  embers  of  the 
wood  and  mis  fire. 

If  any  one  had  told  me  a  few  months  before 
that  I  would  sit  at  a  camp-fire,  my  eyes  blurred 
with  tears  and  my  heart  full  of  regrets  at  parting 
with  a  dowdy,  worn-faced  little  colonial  woman 


The  Witch  Calls  293 

who  understood  nothing  of  life  as  I  had  known 
it;  and  another  who  had  broken  the  moral  code 
and  transgressed  against  the  tenets  of  my  religion, 
I  should  have  been  both  deeply  offended  and 
incredulous.  Even  if  it  could  have  been  explained 
to  me  that  I  should  love  and  reverence  the  first 
woman  because  the  great  forces  of  life — Love 
and  Sorrow  and  Death — had  touched  and  beauti- 
fied her,  revealing  to  all  her  strong  heart,  and 
courage,  and  a  lovely  belief  in  the  mercy  and 
wisdom  of  God,  I  should  yet  not  enftrely  have 
understood;  nor  that  I  could  honour  the  second 
because  I  saw  in  her  a  gentle,  kind,  and  brave 
spirit,  sweet  in  humiliation,  and  free  of  malice  and 
the  small  sins  that  devour  the  souls  of  so  many 
women. 

Africa  had  taught  me  a  few  things. 

I  had  come  out  to  her  stiff  with  the  arrogance 
of  youth  and  well-being,  of  pride  that  has  never 
been  assailed  by  suffering  and  disgrace;  of  recti- 
tude that  has  been  untried  by  temptation ;  full  of 
the  disdainful  virtue  of  one  who  has  known  only 
the  bright,  beflowered  paths  of  life,  and  been  well 
hedged  and  guarded  from  all  that  hurts  and 
defiles.  But  she  had  opened  eyes  in  my  soul 
that  had  been  blind  before,  and  had  shown  me 
lives  seared  with  pain  and  sin  and  scorched  with 
the  fires  of  passion  that  were  yet  beautiful;  of 
men  who  could  fight  down  the  beasts  of  tempta- 
tion and  conquer  the  devils  of  vice;  of  men  who 
could  forget  self-interest  to  hold  out  a  helping 


294  The  Claw 

hand  to  the  weak  and  the  stumbling;  of  men  who 
could  die  in  lone,  silent  places  so  that  others  might 
live  in  safety  and  security;  of  women  who  could 
offer  their  all  for  the  public  good,  and  lose  it  with 
a  smile  on  their  lips. 

These  were  things  I  had  read  of  and  heard  of 
and  dreamed  of  perhaps.  But  in  this  fierce,  sad 
land  they  happened.  Africa  had  shown  them  to 
me  happening  in  all  their  naked  terror  and  beauty. 
In  Europe  I  had  known  pictures,  and  sculpture, 
and  music,  in  all  their  finished  and  accepted 
beauty.  But  here  I  had  found  the  very  elements 
of  Art — deeds  to  inspire  sculpture,  and  all  the 
tragedy  that  a  violin  in  the  hands  of  a  master 
tries  to  tell. 

Riding  home  between  the  two  men,  along  the 
dusty  road,  silver  fretted  now  under  the  glancing 
stars  and  a  moon  that  hung  in  the  heavens  like  a 
great  luminous  pearl,  I  realised  how  changed  I 
was,  and  how  changed  was  life  for  me.  I  think 
then  for  the  first  time  it  dawned  upon  me  that 
the  claw  of  Africa  was  already  deep  in  my  heart, 
but  that  the  throe  it  caused  was  not  all  of  pain. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  town  we  found  that 
some  waggons  we  had  met  on  our  way  out  had 
come  in.  They  were  drawn  up  in  the  front  of 
one  of  the  shops,  and  left  standing  there  for  the 
night,  but  a  little  of  the  unloading  had  been 
begun,  and  on  one  side  of  the  road  lay  three  enor- 
mous packing  cases.  We  reined  in  for  a  moment 
to  look  at  them,  and  read  the  address  painted  on 


The  Witch  Calls  295 

each  in  large  black  letters.  Afterwards  we  gazed 
at  each  other  and  exchanged  sad  ironical  smiles. 
Mrs.  Marriott's  trousseau  had  arrived! 


I  think  it  was  just  three  weeks  afterwards  that 
I  heard  of  Dick's  death.  The  news  came  as  an 
absolute  shock  to  me,  for  I  had  not  even  known 
that  he  was  ill.  It  appeared  that  he  had  been 
suffering  from  fever  ever  since  his  return  from  Fort 
George,  but  he  had  not  allowed  Judy  to  tell  me 
because  he  thought  it  would  add  to  my  worries, 
also  he  hoped  from  day  to  day  to  have  better 
news  to  send.  Instead,  weakened  by  his  wounds 
and  the  privations  undergone  at  the  front,  he 
suddenly  got  rapidly  worse,  and  almost  before 
they  realised  in  what  desperate  case  he  was,  passed 
quietly  out  one  morning  at  dawn.  When  I  heard, 
it  was  too  late  even  to  see  his  face  before  they 
buried  him,  for  the  dead  do  not  tarry  long  with 
us  in  Africa,  and  I  could  not  have  reached  Salis- 
bury in  less  than  three  or  four  days. 

While  I  was  still  quivering  under  the  blow,  and 
as  though  it  were  not  enough,  they  came  to  tell 
me  that  Maurice  Stair  had  come  home — alone. 
Walking  like  a  woman  in  a  dream  I  went  to  the 
hut  where  he  was  resting,  and  heard  the  story  he 
had  to  tell. 

After  much  searching  and  enquiry  among  the 
Matabele  who  had  come  in  to  lay  down  their  arms, 
but  were  all  averse  to  telling  what  part  they  had 


296  The  Claw 

taken  in  the  past  fighting,  or  to  confess  the 
solitary  deeds  of  horror  many  of  them  had  com- 
mitted, he  had  at  last  found  certain  natives  willing 
to  lead  him  to  other  natives  still  away  in  the  bush 
who  had  knowledge  of  the  disappearance  of 
Anthony  Kinsella.  By  inference,  implication,  and 
insinuation — anything  but  direct  information,  for 
fear  they  should  be  accused  of  complicity — these 
boys  had  told  what  they  knew  of  the  affair — 
which  was  too  much! 

They  said  that  after  Britton  had  escaped  to  fetch 
help  from  the  main  column,  Anthony  had  gone  on 
righting,  shooting  with  his  revolver  when  his  rifle 
ammunition  had  given  out,  and  attacking  the 
natives  with  such  violence  that  all  had  fallen 
except  one,  who,  wounded  in  the  legs  had  crawled 
to  the  bush,  and  from  there  had  watched.  He 
reported  that  Anthony  Kinsella  had  been  hit  on 
the  head  by  one  of  the  last  bullets,  and  seemed  to 
have  gone  mad  afterwards  for  he  suddenly  threw 
down  his  revolver  and  leaving  the  body  of  Vincent 
(supposed  by  the  natives  to  be  dead)  had  walked 
away  into  the  bush,  laughing  and  singing  I  After- 
wards some  more  natives  had  come  up,  and  the 
wounded  man  had  shewn  them  the  direction 
Kinsella  had  taken.  They  had  followed  his  spoor, 
and  come  upon  him  in  the  bush,  unarmed 

Maurice  Stair  paused  there,  and  turned  his  face 
away. 

"You  must  tell  me  all,"  I  said  calmly  and 
waited. 


The  Witch  Calls  297 

"They  were  ten  to  one — they  killed  him  by  the 
stream  where  he  was  lying — they  left  nothing  by 
which  we  could  identify  him — but  the  natives  took 
us  without  hesitation  to  the  spot  where  the 
bones  lay.  We  buried  them  and  put  up  a  rough 
cross." 

It  seemed  to  me  then  as  if  my  last  hold  to  life 
was  broken:  as  if  the  last  rock  to  cling  to  in  a 
cruel,  storm-racked  sea  had  crumbled  suddenly 
away,  and  I  went  down  for  awhile  under  the  waves 
of  that  sea;  it  washed  over  my  head  and  sub- 
merged me. 

For  three  months  I  lay  at  the  door  of  death, 
craving  entry  into  the  place  that  held  all  I 
loved.  But  Africa  had  not  done  with  me.  She 
dragged  me  back  from  the  dark,  healed  my  sick 
body  with  her  sunshine,  and  cooled  my  fevers 
with  her  sparkling  air.  She  even  after  a  time 
began  to  lull  my  mind  with  a  peace  it  had  never 
known  before.  In  strange  moments  a  kind  of 
exquisitely  bitter  contentment  possessed  me  at 
having  paid  with  the  last  drop  of  my  heart's  blood 
the  price  she  exacts  from  the  children  of  civilisa- 
tion who  come  walking  with  careless  feet  in  her 
wild  secret  places.  Mocking  and  gay  I  had  come 
to  the  cave  of  the  witch,  and  now  she  clawed  me 
to  her  and  held  me  tight  in  her  bosom  with  the 
hands  of  my  dead.  And  not  my  dead  only:  the 
hands  of  all  those  men  with  whom  I  had  laughed 
in  the  moonlight  and  afterwards  waved  to,  in  fare- 
well— they  held  me  too,  though  they  were  hands 


298  The  Claw 

no  longer  but  pale  bones  on  the  brown  earth; 
they  held  me  fast  like  the  hands  of  dead  brothers 
and  I  could  never  leave  the  land  where  they  lay. 
With  the  strange  prophetic  knowledge  that  some- 
times comes  to  one  when  the  body  is  weakened  by 
illness,  but  the  spirit's  vision  become  wonderfully 
clear,  I  knew  at  last  that  I  could  never  leave  this 
cruel  land  that  had  robbed  me  of  those  I  loved  and 
given  me  instead  a  bitter  peace  and  a  strange 
contentment  in  her  wild,  barren  beauty. 


PART  II 

Ex  Africa  semper  aliquid  novi. 


299 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHAT  AUSTRALIAN  GOLD  ACHIEVED 

"Life  has  always  poppies  in  her  hands." 

"OALISBURY  lies  behind  that  big  brown  hill," 
O  said  Judy,  "about  an  hour's  drive  from 
here."  She  was  perched  with  a  certain  daintiness 
upon  Dirk  Mackenzie's  water  fykie,  sipping  a  cup 
of  coffee,  her  back  crepe  draperies  spread  round 
her  on  the  scrubby  grass.  Mrs.  Shand  and  I,  very 
sunburnt,  wearing  print  bonnets  and  our  oldest 
skirts,  sat  of  the  ground  sharing  a  striped  kaffir 
blanket  with  several  dozen  small  brown  ants,  who 
were  busy  collecting  the  crumbs  left  from  break- 
fast and  hurrying  off  with  them  to  a  neighbouring 
ant-heap.  The  ox  waggon  in  which  we  had  taken 
a  fortnight  to  travel  from  Fort  George  was  loaded 
so  high  with  packing  cases  and  Mrs.  Shand's  fur- 
niture that  it  cast  quite  a  large  patch  of  shade,  in 
which  we  sat  as  in  some  cool  black  pool  while  the 
rest  of  the  world,  including  the  dashing  Cape  cart 
in  which  Judy  had  just  arrived,  sweltered  in 
blinding  sunshine 

301 


302  The  Claw 

Dirk  Mackenzie  our  transport  driver,  a  big, 
bearded,  Natal  man,  stood  smoking  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  talking  to  Mr.  Courtfield,  the  man  who 
had  driven  Judy  out,  and  Maurice  Stair  in  riding- 
kit  with  his  legs  twisted,  holding  his  elbow 
in  one  hand  and  a  cigarette  in  the  other,  stared 
reflectively  at  a  group  of  kaffir  boys  who  at  a  little 
distance  off  were  squatting  round  their  three- 
legged  pot  of  mealie-meal  pap. 

I  looked  from  them  to  the  big  brown  hill  that 
hid  Salisbury,  the  road  of  red-brown  dust  that  led 
there,  the  dazzling  blue  of  the  morning  sky,  and 
back  again  to  the  chic  and  pretty  widow  sitting 
upon  the  fykie  with  her  crdpe  skirts  spread  so 
daintily  about  her. 

Her  grey  eyes  were  sparkling,  there  was  pink  in 
her  cheeks,  and  poudre  de  riz  upon  her  nose;  her 
blond  hair,  charmingly  arranged,  shone  softly, 
and  a  tiny  fair  curl  lay  in  the  centre  of  her  forehead 
just  under  the  white  crdpe  peak  of  her  little 
widow's  bonnet.  Quite  the  most  fascinating 
widow  I  had  ever  seen!  I  had  thought  of  her  all 
the  way  up  as  the  languid,  passe  little  woman  who 
left  me  at  Fort  George,  and  had  longed  to  reach 
her  and  comfort  her  as  best  I  might.  But  any 
one  appearing  less  in  need  of  comfort  than 
this  fresh,  smart  lady  it  would  be  hard  to  find. 
She  looked  as  if  she  had  stepped  straight  out  of 
Jays's.  All  her  languor  and  weariness  of  life  had 
disappeared.  She  seemed  to  have  gone  back  to 
the  days  of  her  youth  before  she  married  Dick. 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  303 

There  was  the  same  pretty,  appealing  look  in  her 
eyes,  the  same  clinging,  helpless  manner,  mingled 
now  with  an  alluring  little  air  of  sadness.  As  for 
the  small  white  hand  that  held  her  coffee  cup, 
nothing  could  have  been  daintier,  more  eager  and 
alive  looking.  Certainly  a  very  different  Judy 
to  the  one  I  had  last  seen  in  Fort  George!  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  have  been  glad,  but  I  was  not. 
My  heart,  with  astounding  contrariety,  yearned 
after  the  other  little  languid,  untidy,  almost  un- 
kempt Judy,  as  one  longs  in  sorrow  for  the 
old  scenes  and  surroundings  of  happier,  dearer 
days. 

"Our  cart  has  had  a  smash-up,  but  Mr.  Court- 
field  lent  me  his  to  come  and  fetch  you,  Deirdre," 
she  was  saying,  "and  would  insist  on  driving  me 
himself.  Was  n't  it  sweet  of  him?  I  find  that 
men  are  so  extraordinarily  kind  to  me  in  my 
trouble."  Her  sad  little  air  deepened,  and  my 
heart  stirred  to  her  for  the  first  time.  Perhaps 
after  all  under  that  elegant  cre"pe  frock  she  was 
just  a  lonely  little  miserable  creature ! 

"Of  course  they  would  be,"  I  said.  "Any  one 
would  be  kind  to  you,  Judy;  and  all  men  loved 
Dick." 

"Every  one  in  this  country  is  kind,  don't  you 
think?"  ventured  Mrs.  Shand. 

"Oh,  every  one?  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  say," 
said  Judy,  and  looked  away  over  Mrs.  Shand's 
head  in  a  way  that  made  that  little  woman 
realise  that  after  all  she  was  only  a  mere  Fort 


304  The  Claw 

George  frump;  a  faint  red  colour  stole  into  her 
sunburnt  face. 

"Will  you  get  ready,  Deirdre?"  continued  my 
sister-in-law.  "We  ought  not  to  keep  Mr.  Court- 
field's  horses  waiting  in  the  sun." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  leave  Mrs.  Shand  alone, 
Judy.  I  would  rather  stay  and  come  in  with  the 
waggon  to-night.  Couldn't  I  do  that?" 

She  was  full  of  remonstrances  for  this  plan,  and 
Mrs.  Shand  would  have  none  of  it  either,  saying 
that  a  boy  had  been  sent  into  town  for  her 
husband,  and  that  she  expected  him  out  at  any 
moment  to  stay  the  day  with  her. 

"Besides,"  said  Judy,  "if  you  stay  out  here  all 
day  and  come  crawling  in  by  waggon  to-night  there 
will  still  be  the  journey  to  make  from  Salisbury  to 
our  place,  nearly  twelve  miles,  and  I  should  not 
be  able  to  borrow  Mr.  Courtfield's  cart  again,  as 
he  is  going  away  in  it  to-night  to  Umtali.  You 
look  a  perfect  wreck,  and  ought  to  get  to  the  end 
of  your  journey  and  rest.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Mrs.  Shand?" 

"Yes,  of  course  she  is  tired.  We  Ve  been  trek- 
king all  night,  and  the  waggon  is  not  a  very  springy 
one.  Mr.  Mackenzie  hoped  to  get  into  Salisbury 
by  the  end  of  this  morning's  trek,  but  there  is  no 
grass,  and  the  oxen  are  poor." 

I  was  obliged  to  go  and  tidy  myself  up  in  the 
waggon  tent,  and  thereafter  climb  into  the  Cape 
cart  with  Judy  and  sit  behind  the  short,  fat,  soft 
man  with  the  pointed  golden  beard  and  confidential 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  305 

eyes,  to  whom  I  had  taken  an  unreasonable  but 
nevertheless  poignant  dislike.  I  hated  to  get  into 
the  cart  Mr.  Courtfield  had  so  kindly  placed  at  my 
service,  and  glanced  longingly  instead  at  Maurice 
Stair's  horse  as  he  slowly  mounted  and  prepared 
to  ride  beside  us.  He  looked  his  best  in  riding-kit 
and  sat  his  horse  well,  swaying  in  the  rather 
slouchy,  graceful  way  that  men  who  have  done 
stock-riding  in  Australia  affect. 

I  had  long  ago  learned  from  him  that  he  had 
spent  several  years  in  Australia  before  coming  to 
Africa.  But  it  appeared  that  Mr.  Courtfield  was 
the  real  thing  from  that  country — an  Australian 
born  and  bred,  not  just  a  man  who  had  learned  to 
ride  there.  Judy  told  me  this  in  a  low  voice, 
perhaps  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  accent 
and  bad  manners  of  the  man  in  front  of  us.  I  was 
not  very  interested.  I  only  wondered  vaguely 
how  she  could  reconcile  herself  to  accept  favours 
from  a  man  who  was  so  obviously  not  a  gentleman. 
Dick  used  to  say  there  were  some  women  who  had 
no  discrimination  about  men,  and  absolutely 
did  n't  know  the  difference  between  a  gentleman 
and  a  cad,  even  when  they  had  the  advantage 
of  knowing  and  living  with  gentlemen  all  their 
lives.  Opportunity  had  never  discovered  this 
trait  in  Judy;  and  I  vaguely  hoped  she  was  not 
going  to  develop  it  now.  Life  is  difficult  enough 
spent  among  nice  men :  I  could  not  tolerate  the 
thought  of  what  it  might  be  with  a  few  Mr. 
Courtfields  about.  Under  cover  of  his  talk  to 


3o6  The  Claw 

Maurice  Stair,  riding  beside  us,  Judy  now  ad- 
dressed me: 

"Dearest  girl,  how  awful  that  you  are  not  in 
mourning.  I  suppose  you  could  not  get  any  black 
in  Fort  George." 

"I  did  not  try,"  said  I,  looking  down  carelessly 
at  my  grey  velveteen  coat  and  skirt,  which  had  cer- 
tainly seen  hard  wear  and  tear  in  the  seven  months 
I  had  spent  in  Mashonaland.  "I  never  thought 
about  it,  to  tell  the  truth,  Judy.  Besides,  Dick 
always  hated  to  see  people  dressed  in  black." 

"Surely  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  dear," 
said  my  sister-in-law  gently.  "One  must  respect 
the  conventions." 

"I  daresay  there  are  some  black  frocks  in  my 
packing  cases.  They  arrived  just  as  we  were  leav- 
ing, so  I  brought  them  on." 

"How  fortunate!"  said  Judy,  looking  cross  for 
the  first  time,  but  quickly  recovering  herself  after 
a  searching  glance  at  me.  "Still,  I  don't  suppose 
you  will  look  well  in  black,  Deirdre.  It  is  such  a 
trying  colour  for  any  one  but  the  very  blond,  and 
you  are  so  very  brown,  are  n't  you?  What  a  pity 
you  did  n't  take  more  care  of  your  skin  on  this 
journey.  I  never  knew  anything  like  a  waggon 
journey  to  turn  one's  complexion  to  leather!" 

"What  place  is  that  on  the  right,  opposite  the 
the  hill?"  I  asked.  "It  seems  to  be  all  dotted 
with  white  things." 

"That  is  the  cemetery,  dear.  Poor  darling  Dick 
is  buried  there." 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  307 

A  grey  veil  seemed  to  come  down  before  my 
face  at  that,  and  presently  through  blurred  eyes  I 
saw  that  the  white  things  were  indeed  little 
crosses  and  headstones. 

"I  should  like  to  get  down,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice, 
as  we  reached  a  wide  path  that  showed  the  way 
to  the  cemetery  gate.  "But  don't  let  this  man 
come." 

"Oh,  no,  he  won't.  He  buried  his  wife  here  a 
few  months  ago,"  was  Judy's  strange  answer. 

I  hoped  she  would  let  me  go  alone,  but  she  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  accompany  me,  so  we  stood 
together  by  my  brother's  grave.  There  were  no 
trees  anywhere,  and  very  few  flowers,  just  one  or 
two  sturdy  scarlet  geraniums  and  some  green 
runners  clambering  carelessly  over  the  wooden 
fence.  Lines  of  dusty  graves  lying  in  the  brilliant 
light,  coarse  veldt  grass  growing  about  them,  and 
above  them  the  little  white  crosses,  with  the  oft^ 
repeated  phrase,  "Died  of  fever!" 

There  they  lay,  sleeping  in  the  sunshine^  £$$ 
Rhodes's  "  boys!  "  The  men  who  had  helped/  to 

Ocf         TfT/i 

open  up  the  country,  light  the  first 

the  first  sods  to  let  the  malaria  out 

for  others  to  build  towns  on.     Q|0 

was  written :  fb  £  ^  ^Bmn 

nid  octrm  ^oW^  omo?, 
"  Where  are  the  brave^tkestro] 

Where  is  our  English  chiYaL 
__.., ,  9rf{/m  Jqa  jfepj  u; 

Wild  grasses  are  their  burial  sheet, 

A     J       uu-  .JXWQJ9H3   fIQD4»Ylft9DDr;a 

And  sobbing  waves  their  threnody. 

j  3Bw  fiDtriw  , J9oiJi  msm  orft  ni 


308  The  Claw 

"Let  us  go  quickly,"  said  Judy.  "There  is  a 
funeral  coming." 

So  we  went  back  to  the  cart,  and  drove  slowly 
so  as  not  to  smother  with  dust  a  little  cortege  that 
passed  us,  taking  a  short  cut  over  the  grass.  If 
Judy  had  not  said  it  was  a  funeral  I  should  not 
have  recognised  one,  though  I  had  seen  many  since 
I  came  to  Mashonaland.  The  coffin  was  placed  on 
a  Scotch-cart  drawn  by  two  bullocks,  and  had  a 
black  cloth  flung  over  it.  But  some  kind  hand 
had  redeemed  the  sordid  loneliness  by  putting  a 
little  bunch  of  wild  flowers  and  a  green  branch 
on  the  black  cloth.  Three  men  followed  behind, 
and  a  woman  on  horseback. 

"Is  n't  it  awful? "  said  Judy.  " That  is  the  way 
they  buried  my  poor  Dick  too.  A  Scotch-cart 
with  bullocks !  But  Dr.  Jim  and  every  one  came 
to  Dick's  funeral.  He  was  one  of  the  'old  crowd.' 
This  must  be  some  stranger." 

"Fellow  from  Lomagundis',  died  of  the  jim- 
jams  last  night,"  said  Mr.  Courtfield  pleasantly. 
"Anderson's  barmaid  was  sweet  on  him.  That 's 
her  behind,  hanging  on  to  Browne's  grey.  The 
horse  will  have  a  raw  back  before  it  gets  back  to 
Police  quarters."  He  finished  his  informing 
remarks  with  a  cheerful  snigger,  seeming  to  take 
some  kudos  unto  himself  for  discovering  that  the 
bunched-up,  red-eyed  woman  could  not  ride. 

Having  at  last  got  round  the  brown  hill  we  came 
suddenly  upon  the  town.  In  a  moment  we  were 
in  the  main  street,  which  was  called  Pioneer  Street, 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  309 

and  the  shops  of  galvanised  iron  were  blinking  and 
winking  at  us  from  either  side.  There  were  a  few 
brick  buildings,  and  many  thatched  roofs.  All  had 
the  conventional  verandah,  which  at  the  sound  of 
our  cart  rapidly  filled  with  the  usual  brown-faced, 
shirt-sleeved  men.  Judy  dispensed  a  number  of 
queenly  bows  and  one  or  two  charming  smiles, 
all  gratefully  received.  I  smiled  too,  some- 
times, when  I  saw  a  face  I  knew,  for  many 
old  Fort  Georgians  were  in  Salisbury;  but  my 
heart  was  aching,  aching,  as  the  sight  of  brown- 
faced,  shirt-sleeved  men  now  always  made  it 
ache. 

It  was  explained  to  me  that  this  was  the  busi- 
ness part  o'f  the  town,  known  as  the  Kopje; 
the  residential  quarter  was  on  the  other  side  of 
a  large  green  swamp,  and  was  called  the  Cause- 
way. A  number  of  squat -looking  houses  were 
scattered  far  and  wide  over  the  veldt. 

"  Howl  wish,"  said  Judy,  "that  Dick  had  bought 
a  place  in  town  instead  of  going  so  far  out.  Ken- 
tucky Hills  is  still  twelve  miles  away,  on  the  Mazoe 
Road." 

Mr.  Courtfield  agreed  with  her  that  it  was  very 
annoying  she  should  have  to  ride  twelve  miles 
for  society,  or  society  for  her.  My  head  and 
heart  ached  dully.  I  was  thankful  when  at  last 
Maurice  Stair  rode  up  to  tell  me  that  Kentucky 
Hills,  my  brother's  place,  was  just  round  the  next 
kopje. 

It  looked  very  homelike  as  we  suddenly  came 


310  The  Claw 

upon  it,  lying  in  a  wide  green  kloof  with  low  hills 
winging  away  from  it  on  either  side — a  big  square 
bungalow  house,  painted  green,  with  verandahs 
all  round,  and  the  beginnings  of  a  charming  garden 
about  it.  At  one  side  of  the  house  a  tennis-court 
had  been  laid  out,  and  a  summer-house  put  up. 
It  was  certainly  far  ahead  of  most  of  the  Mashona- 
land  houses,  but  Dick  had  begun  to  build  it  as 
soon  as  he  came  up,  and  having  the  advantage  of 
a  little  capital  had  been  able  to  do  more  than 
most  people. 

The  verandahs  were  blinded  and  full  of  ferns 
growing  in  native  pots,  and  the  inside  of  the  house 
was  charmingly  comfortable:  big  airy  rooms  and 
windows  looking  out  on  the  ever-changing  change- 
lessness  of  the  red-brown  veldt  and  the  far-off 
hills.  The  furniture  consisted  chiefly  of  deep, 
comfortable  lounge  chairs,  and  tables  of  polished 
brown  wood  that  I  took  for  oak,  but  was  really 
teak  a  wood  of  the  country.  Judy  had  her 
English  things  scattered  about,  and  photographs 
of  Dick  and  home-scenes  that  brought  blinding 
tears  to  my  eyes.  There  was  also  a  piano,  the 
first  that  had  come  into  the  country,  Judy  told 
me ;  a  hotel-keeper  had  brought  it  up  to  make  his 
bar  more  alluring,  but  Dick  offered  him  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  for  it,  though  it  was  only  a  simple 
instrument  of  no  particular  make.  Since  the 
war  plenty  of  pianos  have  come  into  the  country, 
but  in  those  days  one  in  hand  was  worth  ten 
en  route. 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  311 

Judy  had  asked  the  men  to  stay  to  lunch,  and 
while  they  were  in  the  dining-room  and  we  were 
taking  off  our  veils  in  her  room,  a  boy  brought  in 
little  Dickie,  a  darling  wee  man  of  five  with  his 
father's  eyes  and  his  mother's  blond  colouring. 

"This  is  your  Auntie  Deirdre,"  said  Judy,  and 
he  lifted  a  shy  face  to  be  kissed.  At  the  touch  of 
his  innocent  cherubic  lips  the  great  loneliness  that 
filled  me  dispersed  a  little.  My  world  was  not 
so  empty  after  all.  Here  was  Dick's  son  for 
kinsman ! 

Later  in  the  day  when  the  men  were  gone 
and  we  were  resting  in  the  cool,  pretty  drawing- 
room,  I  broached  the  subject  of  the  future  to 
Judy. 

"What  is  there  I  can  do?"  I  asked.  "I  want 
to  stay  in  this  country.  What  can  I  do  to  earn 
my  living  here?" 

"Earn  your  living,  Deirdre?  My  dear  girl,  what 
on  earth  are  you  talking  about?  If  you  really 
wish  to  stay  in  this  country  you  must  live  with  me, 
of  course.  Dick  especially  wished  it.  But  I  can't 
think  why  you  should  want  to  stay  here.  I 
certainly  shall  not,  if  I  can  strike  a  good  bargain 
with  some  one  for  the  property  here,  and  sell 
Dick's  farms  and  claims  in  Matabeleland." 

"Oh,  Judy!  you  surely  would  n't  sell  the  Mata- 
beleland property  that  Dick  practically  paid  for 
with  his  life?" 

She  stood  looking  at  me  in  surprise  so  plainly 
mingled  with  resentment  that  I  swallowed  indig- 


312  The  Claw 

nation  and  addressed  her  with  all  the  gentleness  I 
could  at  the  moment  command. 

"You  know  Dick  had  set  his  heart  on  that 
country.  He  was  full  of  plans  for  turning  his 
property  there  into  a  beautiful  heritage  for 
Dickie  and  at  the  same  time  helping  on  Mr. 
Rhodes's  great  scheme  of  Empire  by  developing 
the  land  to  the  utmost.  Dear  Judy,  I  implore 
you  to  keep  that  for  the  boy." 

She  turned  away  from  me,  answering  peevishly : 

"That  is  all  very  well,  Deirdre.  But  what  kind 
of  life  is  this  for  a  woman?  I  have,  with  what 
Dick  settled  on  me  and  his  insurance,  four  hundred 
a  year.  With  that  and  what  the  property  realises 
I  could  be  quite  snug  and  comfy  in  London;  but 
here  it  is  nothing  at  all ;  one  is  poor  on  it.  Besides, 
what  is  there  to  keep  one  in  a  place  like  this?" 

Strange  that  the  remembrance  of  that  peaceful 
dusty  grave  in  the  sunlight  was  not  enough  to 
keep  her !  That  any  one  would  rather  be  snug  and 
comfy  in  London  than  live  in  this  wide,  open 
land  where  you  had  but  to  go  to  your  window  to 
see  plain  and  sky  touching  on  the  horizon !  Ah ! 
well,  what  was  the  use  of  trying  to  make  her  feel 
what  she  could  never  feel?  I  returned  drearily 
to  the  subject  of  my  own  future. 

"But  what  is  there  /  can  do,  Judy?  I  can  not 
and  will  not  live  on  you.  How  can  I  earn  a  living?" 

"The  only  women  who  earn  their  living  up  here 
are  barmaids  and  domestics,  my  dear,"  she 
answered  dryly.  "I  don't  know  if  you  contem- 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  313 

plate  doing  anything  of  that  sort.  All  the  rest 
are  busy  minding  their  husbands  and  their  homes. 
I  advise  you,  if  you  are  really  bent  on  staying 
here,  to  do  the  same  as  soon  as  possible." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Judy?" 

"You  must  marry,  of  course.  When  you  have 
once  lived  down  that  scandal  about  Anthony 
Kinsella  I  dare  say  you  will  have  plenty  of 
offers." 

I  did  not  speak,  but  perhaps  something  in  my 
face  answered  for  me,  for  she  flushed  a  little  and 
when  she  spoke  again  it  was  somewhat  apologetic- 
ally, though  her  words  were  of  much  the  same 
tenor. 

"I  'm  afraid  you  don't  realise  how  much  you 
have  been  talked  of,  Deirdre.  Mrs.  Valetta  and 
Anna  Cleeve  both  have  terrible  tongues,  and  Mrs. 
Skeffington-Smythe  simply  does  n't  mind  what  she 
says  about  anybody.  Every  one  is  outraged  at 
the  story  of  your  infatuation." 

"That  will  do,  Judy,"  I  interrupted  violently. 
"I  refuse  to  hear  another  word,  and  do  not  ever 
speak  to  me  on  this  matter  again.  Don't  you 
understand  that  it  is  sacred;  that  the  memory  of 
that  man  is  the  only  thing  I  have  left?  Have  n't 
you  eyes  to  see  and  ears  to  hear  anything  else  but 
gossip?  Don't  you  realise  yet  that  I  have  never 
for  one  moment  believed  those  lies  about  Anthony, 
that  nothing  can  shake  my  belief  in  his  honour? 
Dick  believed  in  him  too.  Thank  God  Dick  be- 
lieved in  him  too.  I  have  that  at  least." 


314  The  Claw 

I  spoke  so  passionately  and  bitterly  that  she 
was  abashed  for  a  moment. 

"I  know  that  Dick  believed  in  him,"  she  ad- 
mitted grudgingly.  "But  then  Dick  was  one  of 
those  curious  people  who  would  believe  in  a  man 
simply  because  he  could  'stare  you  clear  in  the 
eyes'  or  'had  a  straight  look  about  his  mouth.' 
He  would  pit  those  things  against  the  blackest 
evidence,  and  expect  other  people  to  be  similarly 
impressed — dear,  sentimental,  ridiculous  fellow! 
But  I  'm  afraid  the  Saurins  are  like  that." 

"Yes,  the  Saurins  are  like  that,"  I  said,  "and 
thank  God  for  it." 

Later,  when  anger  had  been  put  away  and  we 
could  speak  more  calmly  and  dispassionately  she 
said: 

"Well,  if  you  must  stay  here  and  if  you  are  so 
set  on  doing  something,  why  not  undertake  the 
care  of  Dickie  for  me?  He  begins  to  need  teaching, 
and  of  course  it  is  too  far  to  send  him  to  the  little 
school  in  Salisbury;  then  it  is  very  bad  for  him  to 
be  always  with  the  black  boys  and  piccanins ;  they 
teach  him  all  sorts  of  naughtiness ;  you  can't  trust 
them.  It  would  relieve  me  of  a  great  worry  if  you 
would  take  entire  charge  of  him." 

"But  why  not  do  it  yourself,  Judy?"  It  made 
me  sick  to  think  of  Dick's  boy  being  left  to  the 
care  of  natives,  but  I  wanted  to  be  quite  certain 
that  she  was  not  inventing  a  task  out  of  charity. 
She  looked  at  me,  almost  indignant. 

"My  dear  girl!  what  time  have  I  for  teaching  a 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  315 

child?  You  forget  that  now  Dick  is  gone  I  have 
simply  everything  to  see  about  for  myself:  the 
care  of  the  property,  the  accounts,  the  servants, 
social  duties — such  as  they  are — everything.  I 
have  n't  a  moment  for  Dickie.  If  you  won't 
undertake  him  I  shall  have  to  send  him  to  Durban 
again,  until  I  can  sell  the  place.  My  idea  in  stay- 
ing on  at  all  is  to  improve  the  property  on  the  lines 
Dick  intended,  with  the  help  of  his  foreman,  Mr. 
Stibbert,  and  presently  sell  it  at  a  good  price  to 
some  one  of  the  people  who  will  come  pouring  into 
the  country  now  that  the  trouble  with  the  natives 
is  over." 

After  that  I  consented:  but  only  on  the  con- 
dition that  if  she  sold  the  Mashonaland  property 
she  would  at  least  refrain  from  parting  with  Dick's 
Matabeleland  farms  and  claims,  but  keep  them  for 
the  boy.  I  had  less  trouble  in  persuading  her  to 
this  on  reminding  her  of  the  splendid  reports  that 
were  coming  in  of  the  mineral  wealth  of  the  country. 
Experts  said  that  Matabeleland  was  full  of  gold. 

So  it  was  settled  that  I  should  stay,  minding  and 
teaching  Dickie,  and  I  thanked  God  for  a  valid 
reason  to  remain  in  Mashonaland. 

The  household  of  Kentucky  Hills  consisted,  I 
found,  of  ourselves;  Mr.  Stibbert  a  clever  young 
German  who  understood  farming  on  scientific 
principles  and  had  been  engaged  to  manage  Dick's 
cattle  and  land  for  him;  an  elderly  woman  of  the 
same  type  as  Adriana  who  had  brought  Dickie  up 
by  the  East  Coast ;  and  a  number  of  native  servants. 


316  The  Claw 

We  were  not  near  enough  to  Salisbury  to  expect 
much  social  life,  for  it  requires  some  energy  in 
Africa  to  mount  your  horse  for  a  twelve-mile  ride 
to  pay  an  afternoon  call.  Yet  I  was  astonished  to 
find  how  many  people  thought  it  worth  while  to 
come  galloping  along  the  Mazoe  Road  for  the  sake 
of  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  cucumber  sandwich.  These 
things  were  much  in  request  by  behabited  ladies 
and  begaitered  men,  in  Judy's  cool  drawing-room ; 
and  Judy  was  always  ready  to  dispense  them,  look- 
ing very  sad  and  sweet  and  appealing  in  her  little 
white  crepe  widow's  cap.  She  told  me  that  she  had 
never  had  so  many  visitors  before,  and  that  what 
they  came  for  was  to  see  me,  the  contravener  of  by- 
laws and  conventions  from  Fort  George.  I  thanked 
them  much  for  that !  But  if  it  was  true,  their  ob- 
ject was  not  attained.  I  forsook  the  drawing-room 
on  these  occasions  and  was  neither  seen  nor  heard. 
Judy,  a  skilful  little  social  politician,  told  them  I 
had  not  recovered  from  my  serious  illness  brought 
on  by  overwork  among  the  sick  in  Fort  George, 
and  shock  at  my  brother's  death.  She  was  much 
too  clever  to  give  them  any  inkling  of  the  vexing 
arguments  she  had  with  me  on  the  subject;  of 
her  tart  reminders  that  I  was  no  longer  an  heiress, 
nor  even  a  girl  with  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  who 
could  go  her  own  way  regardless  of  the  opinions  of 
the  world ;  and  of  her  constant  injunction  to  me  to 
try  to  get  the  friendship  of  these  women  instead  of 
treating  them  with  indifference. 

"If  you  want  to  live  up  here  you  had  better 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  317 

propitiate  people  and  make  friends,"  she  advised 
me,  "so  that  you  may  at  least  share  such  interests 
as  there  are  in  this  benighted  country." 

But  her  arguments  left  me  cold.  I  cared  no- 
thing for  the  interests  or  the  friendships  of  Salis- 
bury, though  I  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  as 
Dick  had  said  there  were  many  nice  women  in  the 
place.  All  I  wanted  was  to  be  left  alone;  to  be 
let  roam  the  veldt;  to  climb  the  rocky  kopjes 
with  Dickie,  and  dream  up  there  in  the  sunshine 
of  the  days  that  had  been  all  too  short,  when 
Anthony  Kinsella  and  I  lived  our  brief  sweet  hour 
of  happiness.  I  could  not  bear  to  meet  people 
who  looked  upon  that  dream  of  ours  as  outrageous 
and  illegitimate.  And  I  did  not  want  to  talk  to 
people  who  spoke  of  Anthony  Kinsella  as  one  to 
whom  much  should  be  forgiven  because  he  was  of 
the  dead.  I  had  outwardly  accepted  the  fact  that 
he  was  dead  and  that  a  monument  had  been 
erected  where  he  died.  But  yet — but  yet,  why 
should  he  seem  so  alive  to  me  still  in  my  dreams, 
and  my  thoughts?  Why  had  nothing  been  found 
to  identify  him?  No  one  could  swear  to  the  bones 
that  had  been  found.  Ah,  God !  what  wild  hopes 
and  foolish  thoughts  my  heart  fed  upon.  But  I 
wished  for  converse  with  none  who  would  rob  me 
of  those  hopes  and  I  found  life  easiest  to  bear  with 
only  little  gay-hearted  Dickie  for  my  companion. 

And  so,  at  the  first  sound  of  a  horse's  hoof 
Dickie  and  I  were  away,  scudding  up  a  hill  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  there  to  lie  hidden  among  the 


318  The  Claw 

rocks  and  sugar  bushes  until  we  heard  the  hoofs 
once  more  departing.  Sometimes  we  had  a  little 
kettle  up  there  and  made  a  fire  for  our  tea,  and 
afterwards  Dickie  would  climb  the  rocks  pretend- 
ing they  were  ship  masts  while  I  lay  on  the  short 
hot  grass  and  dreamed  of  the  days  that  were  no 
more,  talking  out  my  wild  hopes — all  that  I  had 
left,  to  ponder  upon  and  brood  over. 

If  I  had  possessed  any  money  I  should  have 
fitted  out  an  expedition  into  Matabeleland  over 
the  ground  where  Anthony  had  last  been  seen :  and 
drag-net  the  whole  country  for  traces  of  him,  or  at 
least  for  full  details  of  the  tragedy,  if  tragedy  there 
had  been.  Some  one  would  have  had  to  tell  some- 
thing. Some  one  should  have  been  made  to  pay. 

It  is  true  that  an  official  inquiry  had  been  made 
after  Maurice  Stair's  report,  but  nothing  further 
had  transpired  and  the  matter  left  for  a  time  had 
been  gradually  put  aside  in  a  country  full  of  new 
interests  and  new  men.  It  is  not  much  use  being 
a  dead  man,  or  a  missing  man,  in  Rhodesia,  or  any 
other  country  for  that  matter. 

"  To  us  the  absent  are  the  dead; 
The  dead  to  us  must  absent  be." 

The  living  have  the  best  of  it.  The  dead  and  the 
missing  are  soon  forgotten,  except  by  the  few  who 
loved  them  personally. 

I  felt  that  if  I  could  have  gone  out  into  the  wild 
places  penetrating  the  great  Somabula  Forest  and 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  319 

searching  all  along  the  thickly  bushed  banks  of 
the  Shangani  I  should  have  found  some  trace, 
some  news,  something  to  break  the  aching,  myste- 
rious silence,  and  confirm  me  in  my  belief  that 
Anthony  was  still  alive  somewhere.  But  across 
Africa's  rolling  leagues  of  bush  and  rocks  and 
empty,  rugged,  burning  land  no  one  can  travel 
without  the  accessories  that  only  money  can  buy. 
Bitterly  I  regretted  my  stolen  thousands,  and 
bitterly  hated  the  old  solicitor  Morton,  whom  we 
had  so  well  and  so  unwisely  trusted. 

Poor  Aunt  Betty  too  had  been  badly  hit  over  his 
defalcation,  losing  not  only  her  private  fortune  but 
the  money  she  had  made  at  sculpture  in  years  of 
hard  work.  Nevertheless,  she  had  written  and 
urged  me  to  come  back  to  Paris  and  share  with  her 
all  she  had.  But  I  steadfastly  resisted  her  urgent 
letters.  I  could  not  go  if  I  would.  Stronger 
bonds  held  me  'fast  in  Africa  than  ever  Betty  van 
Alen's  love  could  forge.  I  had  to  stay  with  Judy 
and  Dick's  boy  as  long  as  I  could  be  of  use  to 
them.  They  had  just  claims.  But  even  when 
the  day  came  that  they  no  longer  wanted  me  I 
should  not  leave  Africa.  The  witch  had  dug  her 
claw  in  deep.  I  could  not  go  if  I  would. 

As  it  was  I  cost  Judy  nothing.  For  clothes  and 
the  necessities  of  life,  which  since  I  lost  my  income 
had  become  luxuries,  I  parted  one  by  one  with  my 
jewels,  sending  them  down  to  Durban  to  be  sold. 

And  so  the  months  slipped  by,  until  a  year  had 


32O  The  Claw 

gone  since  the  night  I  kissed  Anthony  Kinsella  good- 
bye. Of  all  the  old  Fort  George  friends  there  was 
only  one  left  in  my  life — Maurice  Stair.  The  rest 
were  scattered  far  and  wide  in  Matabeleland,  and 
the  different  camps  and  townships  springing  up  in 
every  part  of  the  country. 

That  is  the  way  in  Africa.  People  come  into 
your  life,  live  in  almost  family  intimacy  with  you, 
learn  (very  often)  the  very  inmost  secrets  of  your 
heart,  share  joys  and  sorrows  with  you,  then  pass 
on  and  are  lost  to  you  for  ever.  Only  here  and 
there  you  grasp  a  hand  that  you  can  hold  over  hills 
and  seas,  though  darkness  hide  you  from  one 
another  and  leagues  divide,  until  the  end. 

Of  the  Salisbury  women  I  had  known  in  Fort 
George :  Anna  Cleeve  had  married  her  rich  man  and 
left  Africa:  Mrs.  Skeffington-Smythe  was  still,  to 
the  fore  in  Salisbury  and  might  always  be  found 
where  scandals  were  rifest  and  the  battle  of  the 
tongues  wagged  hottest:  but  she  did  not  much 
afflict  Kentucky  Hills  with  her  presence. 

Mrs.  Valetta  sometimes  came  riding  out  with 
Maurice  Stair  to  visit  Judy,  but  she  and  I  never 
met,  and  within  the  last  few  months  she  had  gone 
away  with  her  husband  to  some  new  town  in 
Matabeleland.  I  did  not  inquire  where.  I  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  forget  Nonie  Valetta,  and 
that  she  and  I  had  ever  crossed  each  other's  paths. 

Maurice  Stair  was  very  kind  and  gentle  and  silent 
always.  I  often  let  him  come  with  Dickie  and  me 
to  the  hill-tops.  He  was  so  quiet  that  I  could  al- 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  321 

most  forget  that  he  was  there .  Apparently  he  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  be  with  me  as  often  as  his 
work  allowed.  His  duties  as  an  Assistant  N.  C., 
which  he  cordially  detested  were  not  very  arduous, 
and  often  took  him  away  for  long  spells.  But 
whenever  he  was  in  Salisbury  he  found  his  way  to 
Kentucky  Hills. 

I  liked  him  for  several  reasons.  One  was  be- 
cause he  talked  so  little  in  a  country  where  every- 
one gossiped  perpetually.  Also,  there  was  a  kind 
of  quiet  melancholy  about  him  that  suggested 
acknowledged  failure,  and  there  is  always  a  pa- 
thetic appeal  to  a  woman  in  that.  Certainly  a 
man  of  his  age  and  education  ought  not  to  have 
been  idling  away  his  life  at  work  he  hated  and  in 
which  there  was  no  probable  advancement.  I 
often  felt  that,  and  apparently  he  felt  it,  too, 
though  he  made  no  effort  as  far  as  I  knew  to  change 
the  tenor  of  his  life.  But  really  I  knew  very 
little  about  him  except  what  he  told  me  in  rare 
expansive  moments.  He  was  a  public  school  man, 
and  had  been  prepared  for  the  Army,  a  profession 
he  had  set  his  heart  on  but  had  been  prevented 
from  entering  by  the  caprice  of  his  guardian.  This 
guardian  was  his  uncle  and  only  relative,  Sir 
Alexander  Stair,  a  distinguished  diplomat  I  had 
often  heard  of  at  home — a  very  clever,  witty, 
lonely,  and  sardonic  old  man,  and  not  at  all  a 
lovable  character,  people  said.  I  half  under- 
stood the  bitterness  with  which  his  nephew  always 
spoke  of  him.  But  it  seemed  to  me  very  sad  that 


322  The  Claw 

two  men,  the  last  of  their  family  and  alone  in  the 
world,  should  be  so  apart  in  sympathy.  Yes: 
there  were  several  pathetic,  appealing  things  about 
Maurice  Stair,  his  gentle,  dark  eyes  and  quiet, 
restrained  manners,  were  in  striking  and  refresh- 
ing contrast  with  those  of  John  Courtfield  who 
was  perpetually  about  the  house.  The  Austra- 
lian's common  ideas,  expressed  in  common 
accents,  did  not  offend  Judy  as  they  did  me.  Nor 
was  she  outraged  by  the  intimacy  of  his  horrible 
bulging  eyes.  I  came  to  look  forward  to  Maurice 
Stair's  presence  as  a  relief  from  the  colonial's 
obtrusive  personality. 

Not  that  John  Courtfield  came  to  see  me.  I 
did  not  in  fact  think  he  came  to  see  any  one  in 
particular,  but  that  he  simply  made  Kentucky 
Hills  a  convenient  stopping  place  on  the  way  to 
a  mining  camp  out  Mazoe  way  in  which  he  was 
interested.  But  at  last  it  dawned  upon  me  that 
Judy  was  the  star  in  his  sky.  When  I  realised  this 
I  don't  know  whether  I  was  more  shocked  that  such 
an  unutterable  cad  should  have  the  effrontery  to 
aspire  to  my  brother's  widow  or  that  Judy  should 
complacently  permit  such  an  insolence;  the  latter 
I  could  hardly  bring  myself  to  believe  with  poor 
Dick  hardly  yet  part  of  the  brown  earth  that 
covered  him.  But  the  truth  was  thrust  violently 
upon  me  one  evening  when  just  after  putting 
Dickie  to  bed  I  came  into  the  drawing-room  and 
found  Judy  and  John  Courtfield  sitting  there  in 
the  half-light,  holding  hands  and  gazing  into  each 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  323 

other's  eyes  like  moon-struck  sheep.  I  was  so 
horrified  I  almost  fell  upon  her  then  with  re- 
proaches, but  instead  I  burst  from  the  room  as 
hastily  as  I  had  entered  it  and  going  to  my  own 
room  threw  myself  on  my  bed  and  wept  for  Dick. 

A  few  moments  later  I  heard  John  Courtfield's 
horse  taking  him  away,  and  Judy  came  scurrying 
to  my  room.  I  sat  up  with  the  tears  streaming 
down  my  face,  and  cried  out  bitterly  to  her: 

"Oh,  Judy!  It  cannot  be  true!  You  cannot 
have  the  baseness  to  think  of  putting  that  man 
in  Dick's  place!" 

She  burst  out  crying  too :  called  me  cruel,  heart- 
less, one  of  those  cold-blooded  women  who  do 
not  understand  a  nature  like  hers  that  must  have 
love  as  a  flower  the  sun — a  clinging,  helpless  nature 
that  must  be  loved  and  cared  for — that  could  not 
live  without  a  man's  love. 

"I  am  so  lonely,"  she  wept.  "I  feel  so  help- 
less— it  is  sweet  to  be  minded.  Of  course  my 
heart  is  buried  in  Dick's  grave — darling  Dick! 
There  can  never  be  any  one  like  him — but  I  'm 
sure  he  would  not  have  wished  me  to  be  lonely!" 

"He  would  never  have  had  a  cad  like  that  man 
Courtfield  inside  his  gates,"  I  raged.  But  a  mo- 
ment later  I  was  pleading  with  her,  beguiling, 
begging. 

"Oh,  Judy!  if  you  must  marry  again  choose 
some  one  else ;  there  are  lots  of  nice  men  here ;  why 
should  you  take  one  who  is  not  even  a  gentleman? 
You  know  it  has  been  more  than  hinted  to  us 


324  The  Claw 

that  he  is  not  honourable.  He  cannot  get  in  at 
the  Club  because  of  some  shady  thing  he  did  about 
money,  and  because  he  is  so  insufferably  common 
that  other  men  detest  him.  Think  how  men 
loved  Dick,  and  how  much  they  think  of  you  as  his 
widow!  Do  not,  for  Heaven's  sake,  make  such  a 
frightful  betise.  You  surely  cannot  love  him?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  eyes  grown  like  two  little 
grey  stones,  and  her  mouth  was  a  fast-shut  trap. 

"Haven't  I  told  you  that  my  heart  is  buried 
with  Dick?  But  John  Courtfield  is  clever  and  rich, 
though  you  despise  him.  He  is  clever  enough  to 
have  got  very  rich.  We  would  never  have  to 
worry  about  money  again." 

"We!"  said  I  fiercely.  "You  surely  do  not 
include  me  in  your  hateful  scheme  to  forget  Dick 
• — to  disgrace  his  memory?" 

At  that  she  rose  at  me  white-lipped. 

"No,  I  do  not:  I  am  thinking  of  myself  and 
my  boy." 

"  Don't  include  Dick's  son,  either.  His  father 
thought  of  him  and  provided  for  him ;  bought  him 
a  heritage  with  his  life.  He  does  not  need  to  live 
on  the  bounty  of  this  horrible  Australian.  No: 
you  are  thinking  only  of  yourself,  Judy.  Oh! 
how  can  you  ?  How  can  you  ? ' ' 

I  suppose  I  had  no  right  to  say  these  things.  I 
did  not  mean  them  cruelly  either,  only  pleadingly ; 
and  in  a  just  cause  they  seemed  excusable.  I  could 
not  bear  this  thing  to  happen. 

But  she  was  furious  at  my  opposition  and  said 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  325 

even  bitterer  things  than  I  did;  told  me  that  I 
was  jealous  because  no  one  loved  me  enough  to  seek 
me  out;  flung  jibes  at  me  about  Tony  Kinsella; 
said  that  I  was  talked  about  all  over  the  country, 
that  women  would  not  speak  to  me,  that  the  scan- 
dal reflected  on  her  also  who  had  never  had  a  breath 
of  scandal  attached  to  her.  She  would  be  glad  to 
change  a  name  that  had  been  so  brandished  she 
finished  at  last :  and  I  doubt  not  in  that  moment  I 
was  as  white-lipped  as  herself.  But  I  was  not  so 
eloquent.  I  was  cold  and  still  as  a  stone.  When 
she  burst  out  crying,  in  weak  reaction,  and  began 
to  mumble  apologies,  I  did  not  speak  but  walked 
away  from  her  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the 
house.  I  had  no  gold  to  offer  there  for  her  tinsel 
and  dross — for  the  ashes  and  mud  that  had  been 
flung  at  me. 

I  walked  the  ground  until  I  was  weary,  then  sat 
on  a  rock  on  the  kopje  side,  wondering  dully  what 
further  daggers  for  my  heart  Africa  had  hidden  in 
her  mantle.  While  I  sat  there  I  heard  another 
horse  at  the  gates,  and  Maurice  Stair's  voice 
echoing  across  the  garden  and  up  the  hill.  He 
stayed  some  time  in  the  house,  but  later  I  saw  him 
coming  as  I  knew  he  would  to  look  for  me.  In  my 
white  gown  I  was  plainly  outlined  on  the  moonlit 
hill,  and  he  came  straight  where  I  sat,  but  before 
he  reached  me  I  called  out  abruptly,  even  rudely, 
for  I  was  in  no  mood  for  companionship: 
"Do  not  come  and  talk  to  me  to-night." 
"I  must,"  he  answered,  and  came  and  sat  at 


326  The  Claw 

my  feet.  "Oh,  do  let  me,  Miss  Saurin.  I  have 
been  talking  to  your  sister-in-law.  She  was 
crying,  but  would  not  tell  me  why.  Only — I 
gathered  that  you  and  she  are  not  happy  together. 
Dear  girl  that  I  love,  why  will  you  not  let  me  try 
and  make  you  happy?  Marry  me,  Deirdre." 

"Do  not  speak  of  such  a  thing,"  I  said  gently. 
"It  is  impossible.  You  don't  know  how  sorry 
you  make  me.  But — I  can  never  marry  any 
one." 

"A  girl  like  you  cannot  live  alone,  unmarried. 
By  God!  you  were  not  made  for  such  a  life!" 

"God  knows  what  I  was  made  for,"  I  answered 
bitterly.  "I  am  beginning  to  wonder.  But  I 
am  sure  it  was  not  to  marry  you,  Maurice.  You 
must  not  think  of  this  any  further." 

"Why  not?  Ah — but  I  know  why  not.  You 
think  Kinsella  is  still  alive.  I  know  that  is  it. 
My  poor  child,  how  can  you  delude  yourself  so?" 

"You  don't  know  that  it  is  a  delusion,"  I  said. 

"But  I  do." 

"You  do  not,"  I  contended  almost  violently. 
"  No  one  knows ;  no  one  can  know  for  certain 

"But  I  do,"  he  repeated  oddly:  so  oddly  that 
my  attention  was  arrested.  My  heart  stood  still. 

"What  do  you  know?"  I  demanded,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice.  "What  can  you  know  that  is  not 
known  to  every  one?  And  it  is  not  enough. 
For  me  at  least  it  is  not  enough." 

In  the  long  while  that  seemed  to  me  to  elapse 
before  he  made  an  answer  I  had  time  to  soundlessly 


What  Australian  Gold  Achieved  327 

cry  from  my  heart   in    exquisite  bitterness   and 
fear: 

"Oh,  God!  spare  me  this  .  .  .  spare  me  this 
...  let  this  pass." 

Maurice  Stair  looked  strangely  pale  standing 
there  in  the  moonlight.  When  he  did  speak  his 
voice  was  low  and  stammering:  but  I  heard  his 
words  as  clearly  as  bells. 

"I  never  told  you  before — it  seemed  un- 
necessarily brutal — but  now  I  know  that  it  was  a 
mistake.  I  ought  to  have  told  you.  I  found 
something  on  the  spot  where  the  bones  lay- 
something  that  made  me  absolutely  certain  that 
the  man  killed  there  was  Tony  Kinsella.  I  have 
never  told  any  one  of  it.  I— 

"How  dared  you  keep  it  secret?  Oh!  how 
dared  you?  What  was  it?  But  I  do  not  be- 
lieve you — nothing  will  ever  make  me  believe 
you." 

I  thought  to  cry  the  words  in  a  ringing  voice, 
but  I  found  that  I  was  speaking  in  a  whisper. 
The  ground  was  slipping  away  from  beneath  my 
feet;  Africa  was  dragging  her  gift  from  my  heart; 
my  eyes  dimmed ;  I  swayed  a  little,  almost  falling : 
but  still  I  whispered : 

"I  do  not  believe — I  do  not  believe 

At  last  I  saw  that  he  was  holding  something  out 
towards  me,  and  speaking: 

"I  searched  long  and  well  for  the  other — 
but — either  it  was  washed  away,  or  the  kaffirs 
took  it." 


328  The  Claw 

The  thing  that  lay  in  the  palm  of  his  hand 
stared  up  at  me  like  a  dull  blue  eye.  I  took  it 
with  trembling,  frozen  fingers — a  little  turquoise 
ear-ring! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHAT  A  MAY  DAY  SAW 
"And  are  not  afraid  with  any  amazement." 

"  T  |E  is  rich,"  said  Judy  for  the  twentieth  time. 

1  1  "And  a  clever  business  man.  And  he 
adores  me.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  think  your- 
self justified  in  being  so  hard  and  unsympathetic 
about  it,  Deirdre.  I  am  one  of  those  extremely 
feminine  women  who  must  have  some  one  to  look 
after  me.  You  can  have  no  idea  how  wretched 
and  lonely  I  am.  It  is  all  very  well  for  you — so 
self-poised  and  full  of  character.  Women  like 
you  don't  really  know  what  it  is  to  love  and  suffer. 
I  don't  believe  tall  women  feel  things  like  little 
women  either;  and  I  am  so  tiny — Dick  always 
said  I  was  like  a  tiny  sweet  rosebud." 

"Oh,  leave  Dick  out  of  it  for  God's  sake,  Judy," 
I  groaned.  "Content  yourself  with  the  words  of 
Mr.  Courtfield  now.  Let  poor  Dick  rest  in  his 
grave." 

"How  brutal  you  are,  Deirdre!"  A  moment 
afterwards  she  added  vindictively,  "It  is  really  the 

329 


330  The  Claw 

best  thing  that  could  have  happened  for  both  of  us. 
You  and  I  could  not  have  got  on  together  much 
longer.  And  I  can  see  you  are  beginning  to  set 
my  boy  against  me  too." 

"Oh,  Judy!"  I  burst  out  passionately,  but  the 
moment  after  my  anger  and  indignation  evapor- 
ated, and  I  felt  nothing  but  the  dull  aching  pain 
that  would  never  leave  me  now.  What  did  it 
matter  what  unjust,  cruel  words  she  spoke  ?  What 
did  anything  matter?  I  did  not  care.  I  did  not 
care  about  anything,  nor  want  anything.  Ah, 
yes!  There  was  one  thing  I  wanted  burningly, 
consumingly,  terribly:  to  leave  the  pitiless  brute 
of  a  country  that  had  beaten  and  broken  and 
robbed  me,  that  had  ground  me  to  powder  in  its 
cruel  maw. 

But  I  did  not  know  how  to  go,  nor  where.  And 
I  knew  not  how  I  should  bear  to  leave  Dick's  boy 
behind.  I  had  no  money,  either.  I  must  earn  it 
first.  And  how  to  do  that?  In  a  country  where 
there  was  nothing  for  a  woman  to  do  who  had 
never  been  trained  to  work  with  her  hands! 

"What  is  there  I  can  do?"  I  said  to  Maurice 
Stair.  "For  God's  sake  tell  me  how  I  can  earn 
money  to  leave  this  country  and  never  see  it 
again." 

"There  is  no  way  that  a  girl  like  you  can  earn 
money  here,"  he  said.  "There  is  only  one  thing 
to  do,  one  thing  which  I  am  always  urging — to 
marry:  to  marry  me.  Be  my  wife  and  I  will 
take  you  away." 


What  a  May  Day  Saw  331 

"Oh!  don't,  don't.  How  can  you  ask  me  that? 
"You  know  I  have  nothing  to  give.  You  know  I 
can  never  love  you." 

"I  will  make  you  love  me,  Deirdre,"  he  cried, 
and  even  in  my  dull  misery  a  ghostly  smile  twisted 
my  lips  to  hear  once  more  that  vain-glorious  boast 
so  often  on  men's  lips! 

"I  don't  care — I  will  ask  nothing  of  you— 
until  you  love  me — Until  then  I  want  nothing 
of  you,  only  to  be  near  you,  to  have  the  right 
to  take  care  of  you,  to  give  you  all  you  wish  for, 
to  do  all  you  desire.  Oh!  Deirdre,  do  not  turn 
away  from  me — I  want  you — I  want  you. — I  am 
a  failure  and  a  good-for-nothing  now,  but  with 
you  at  my  side  to  help  and  guide  me  I  feel  that 
I  could  carve  out  a  great  career — make  a  great 
name  for  you  to  bear.  I  know  that  I  have 
it  in  me  to  do  great  things,  and  for  your  sake 
and  with  you  beside  me  I  will  do  them.  Why 
spoil  two  lives? — mine  as  well  as  your  own. 
You  say  your  life  is  a  wasted  one!  Don't  let 
it  be.  Do  something  with  it:  make  a  man 
of  me!  Help  me  to  become  something,  instead 
of  pitching  away  my  youth,  a  waster  and  loafer 
who  will  never  do  or  be  anything.  If  you  re- 
fuse me,  my  life  will  be  over  as  sure  as  I 
am  standing  here.  God  knows  what  will  become 
of  me." 

He  stood  there  pleading  in  his  low,  gentle  voice, 
pale  and  handsome  and  chivalrous-looking  in  the 
moonlight — the  liquid,  silver,  African  moonlight 


332  The  Claw 

that  had  tricked  and  mocked  me !  And  the  great, 
empty  woman-land  echoed  back  to  me  his  pathetic 
pleading  words.  The  scarlet  stars  hung  overhead, 
and  the  golden  moon  that  had  seen  Anthony 
Kinsella  lying  dead  smiled  down  her  mocking 
smile.  Everything  mocked  me  in  this  cruel  land. 
How  I  hated  it!  How  I  hated  the  sun  and  moon 
and  stars  of  it! 

"  If you  will  take  me  away  from  Africa"  I  cried 
at  last,  hardly  knowing  what  I  said  in  my  bitter 
pain. 

"Yes — yes:  I  will  do  anything,  everything  you 
wish.  We  will  marry  and  go  away  immediately 
afterwards.  My  uncle  has  great  influence  in 
diplomatic  circles  and  can  easily  get  me  into  the 
Consular  service.  We  will  go  abroad  and  begin  a 
splendid  new  life  in  some  other  land." 

"You  offer  me  too  much,"  I  said,  "for  I  have 
nothing  to  give  in  return.  Do  you  understand 
that,  Maurice?  I  can  only  give  you  my  services 
as  a  sister,  a  companion,  some  one  who  will  make 
your  interests  hers,  entertain  your  friends,  help 
you  in  your  career " 

"  I  swear  to  God  I  will  ask  nothing  more  of  you, 
Deirdre — until  you  love  me." 

"And  you  will  take  me  away  from  Africa?" 

"The  minute  I  can  break  loose  from  my  billet 
in  the  Chartered  Company." 

That  is  how  I  bartered  myself  away  in  marriage 
to  Maurice  Stair. 


What  a  May  Day  Saw  333 

He  was  of  my  religion  though  he  had  never 
been  what  is  called  "a  good  Catholic."  All  that 
was  going  to  be  altered  now  he  told  me,  but  I  did 
not  think  very  deeply  about  it.  My  faith  re- 
quired that  I  should  marry  a  Catholic,  but  I  had 
never  cared  for  religious  men,  being  content  if 
those  I  closely  knew  were  just  clean-hearted  and 
generous  -  minded  gentlemen  —  "steel  -  true  and 
blade-straight!" 

We  were  married  by  one  of  the  Jesuit  fathers  on 
a  May  morning  a  year  and  ten  months  after  my 
first  coming  to  Mashonaland.  The  thought  of 
being  married  in  May  did  not  irk  my  super- 
stitious soul  as  once  it  might  have  done.  It  was 
unlucky  every  one  said :  but  I  knew  that  luck  and 
I  had  parted  company.  She  had  done  her  worst, 
and  thrown  me  over.  I  laughed  with  a  wry  lip 
when  even  Judy  did  not  fail  to  repeat  to  me  the 
old  ryhme : 

"  Marry  in  May 
You  '11  rue  the  day," 

— just  in  case  I  might  never  have  heard  it  before ! 
I  told  her  that  rue  had  been  my  portion  for  such 
a  good  time  now  that  I  was  used  to  the  flavour, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  the  saying  came  with 
singular  gracelessness  from  her  lips,  seeing  how 
much  she  had  to  do  with  my  choice  of  that — or 
any  month  in  which  to  marry  Maurice  Stair. 
It  was  to  avoid  seeing  her  marry  John  Courtfield, 


334  The  Claw 

or  in  the  alternative  to  prevent  the  scandal  my 
absence  from  her  wedding  would  cause,  that  I 
had  let  Maurice  persuade  me  to  be  married  at 
once  instead  of  waiting  for  the  end  of  June  when 
his  service  as  one  of  the  Company's  officials  would 
be  at  an  end.  So  after  all,  I  should  be  obliged  to 
stay  another  month  in  Rhodesia — and  that  as 
Maurice  Stair's  wife. 

The  arrangement  was  that  after  a  few  days  on 
the  farm  of  a  friend  of  his  we  were  to  go  for  the  rest 
of  his  service  to  a  small  new  township  in  Matabele- 
land,  where  he  would  take  over  the  work  pro  tern. 
of  another  man  on  leave.  When  I  first  heard  of 
this  I  trembled  and  turned  sick. 

Not  only  was  I  to  stay  longer  in  this  fateful 
land,  but  must  turn  my  feet  towards  the  bleak 
portion  of  it  that  had  robbed  me  directly  and 
indirectly  of  all  I  held  dear  in  life.  In  that  mo- 
ment I  strove  to  draw  back  from  the  barren  pro- 
mise I  had  given  Maurice  Stair,  telling  him  in 
burning  words  that  he  was  not  keeping  faith  with 
me ;  that  I  had  promised  to  marry  him  but  that  his 
part  of  the  contract  was  to  take  me  from  the 
country  without  delay.  I  resented  and  resisted 
with  all  the  strength  left  in  me;  but  that  was  no 
great  amount.  Strength  of  will,  and  many  other 
things  seemed  to  have  died  in  me  on  the  night  I 
took  from  his  palm  that  little  blue  turquoise.  So 
his  humble  pleadings  and  arguments  prevailed. 

I  said  to  myself — why,  being  so  wretched, 
make  another  equally  so?  and  sought  with 


What  a  May  Day  Saw  335 

prayers  and  weeping  for  courage  to  take  up  my 
life  afresh  and  face  my  empty  fate.  And  in  some 
measure  at  last  I  found  it,  and  strength  to  cry  with 
Stevenson : 

"  Come  ill  or  well,  the  cross,  the  crown, 
The  rainbow  or  the  thunder, 
I  fling  my  soul  and  body  down 
For  God  to  plough  them  under." 

I  planned  with  myself  a  fine  new  plan  of  life. 
If  mine  must  be  empty  of  the  sweet  personal 
passionate  love  that  every  girl  thinks  her  rightful 
due  then  I  would  fill  it  with  a  big  altruistic  love  for 
all  the  world.  Like  Heine,  out  of  my  great  sor- 
rows I  would  make  little  songs.  I  would  live  a  life 
of  gentle  sacrifice  to  the  exigencies  of  others,  of 
unselfish  devotion  to  all  that  was  best  and  most 
beautiful  in  the  characters  of  the  people  with  whom 
I  came  in  touch.  Surely  that  would  bring  some 
solace  and  sweetness  in  the  many  years !  I  thought 
of  faces  I  had  seen  with  stories  of  sorrow  carved 
upon  them  that  were  yet  most  noble  and  beautiful ; 
and  I  said,  mine  shall  be  a  face  like  that  when  I 
am  old.  Of  the  first  few  years  I  expected  little 
but  lost  battles  and  "broken  hopes  for  a  pillow  at 
night,"  but  surely  in  time,  in  time,  after  much 
stumbling  and  rising  again  to  the  fight,  victory 
would  come,  and  peace  from  the  passionate  ache 
of  youth.  Perhaps  in  the  end  that  peace  of 
God  which  passeth  all  understanding  would 
descend  like  dew  upon  my  parched  soul — and 


336  The  Claw 

give  me  rest  from  the  pain  of  love  unfulfilled.  I 
could  not  die,  I  would  live  for  others.  Gold  for 
silver! 

These  were  the  thoughts  and  plans  that  I  took 
to  the  altar,  and  Maurice  Stair,  standing  by  me, 
so  gentle  and  chivalrous-eyed,  so  debonair  in  his 
khaki  and  leather,  seemed  no  ill-chosen  companion 
for  the  path  I  was  setting  my  feet  to. 

We  were  married  in  travelling-kit.  I  shrank 
from  putting  on  all  the  panoply  of  a  bride,  and 
Maurice,  when  I  asked  him,  diffidently  enough,  to 
let  me  off  white  satin  and  orange  blossoms,  was 
perfectly  content.  I  was  pleased  at  the  time  to 
find  him  so  careless  about  outward  forms  and 
conventions.  Still,  I  felt  it  to  be  only  fair  to  him, 
and  the  proper  fulfilling  of  my  part  of  the  bargain, 
to  make  myself  look  as  charming  as  possible,  so  I 
had  a  special  little  white  crepe  walking-frock  made 
and  a  wide  wavy  hat  of  white  lace  and  roses. 

Judy  gave  me  away :  Sore  as  my  heart  was  with 
her,  I  had  to  remember  that  she  was  Dick's  wife. 
Also  there  was  a  concession  to  be  paid  for  un- 
stintingly;  she  had  promised,  that  because  she 
must  live  in  Buluwayo  for  the  first  year  of  her 
married  life  she  would  let  little  Dickie  come  to  me 
wherever  Maurice  and  I  found  the  lines  of  our 
new  life  laid.  I  was  so  thankful  to  her  for  this 
chance  of  keeping  Dick's  boy  away  from  the  in- 
fluence of  his  step-father  that  I  could  almost  forget 
her  treason  to  that  big  loving  heart  lying  out 
beyond  Salisbury  hill.  Almost — not  quite;  but  at 


What  a  May  Day  Saw  337 

least  for  the  sake  of  the  dead  man's  son  I  tried  to 
stifle  down  my  resentment  of  an  act  I  could  not 
prevent. 

So  I  let  her  take  my  hand  as  we  drove  to  church, 
and  babble  to  me  about  how  sure  she  was  that 
I  was  going  to  be  happy — what  a  nice  fellow 
Maurice  was — every  one  said  so — and  so  hand- 
some— and  five  hundred  a  year  apart  from  his 
salary — very  few  men  had  that  out  here — they 
all  came  out  to  try  and  make  it  by  hook  or  by 
crook — of  course  he  was  nothing  like  some  of  the 
matches  I  might  have  made  at  home — but  still 
— etc. 

That  aspect  of  the  situation  had  indeed  never 
occurred  to  me  before,  and  while  she  talked  I 
considered  it  musingly,  remembering  suddenly 
that  there  were  indeed  others  I  might  have  married. 
I  wondered,  vaguely  then  for  the  first  time,  how  I 
came  to  be  marrying  a  man  I  knew  so  little  of  as 
Maurice  Stair  when  there  were  men  at  home  who, 
to  use  their  own  words,  were  "always  to  hand  if  I 
should  change  my  mind  at  any  time." 

But  Maurice  was  to  hand  too!  He  had  in 
fact  been  right  at  hand,  with  a  plan  for  a  useless, 
broken  life  at  a  moment  when  there  seemed  to  be 
nothing  left  to  do  but  die.  And  there  was  some- 
thing almost  like  a  tie  between  us  in  the  knowledge 
that  we  shared  of  Anthony's  fate ;  and  in  the  fact 
that  he  was  the  first  to  go  forth  to  seek  news 
for  me.  True  I  could  not  thank  him  for  such  news 
as  he  brought;  but  somehow  he  seemed  almost 


338  The  Claw 

sanctified  to  me  in  being  the  bearer  of  that  little 
fateful  blue  stone  I  wore  against  my  heart;  the 
last  thing  Anthony  had  worn:  the  last  tangible 
trace  of  him  on  earth! 

Oh,  yes,  there  were  reasons,  bitter  cruel  reasons 
why  I  should  repay  the  love  and  service  of  Maurice 
Stair,  inasmuch  as  a  loveless  wife  and  the  empty 
shell  of  a  heart  could  repay  him.  It  seemed  a 
poor  bargain  for  a  man  of  thirty  with  ambitions 
for  a  great  career,  and  all  the  world  before  him, 
to  make  and  be  content  with ;  but  he  never  ceased 
to  assure  me  of  his  content,  so  the  least  I  could 
do  was  to  refrain  from  the  gracelessness  of  remind- 
ing him  of  it.  And  indeed  I  meant  to  do  my  part 
for  his  career,  at  least.  When  his  uncle  had  once 
launched  him  in  the  Consular  service  well  I  knew 
that  he  would  find  no  wife  more  able  for  that  kind 
of  life  than  I  who  had  been  practically  trained  to 
society:  with  my  upbringing  and  knowledge  of 
the  world  and  its  ways,  with  a  heart  empty  of 
any  thing  but  ambition  for  my  husband  I  could  go 
far  and  I  meant  to — in  return  for  being  wrenched 
from  the  claw  of  Africa! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHAT  A  JEWELLER  MADE 

"The  truth  is  rarely  pure,  and  never  simple. " 

SO  Maurice  Alexander  Stair  and  I  were  married. 
After  the  ceremomy  we  drove  back  to 
Kentucky  Hills,  and  shared  with  a  few  friends 
the  pretty  breakfast  Judy  had  arranged  for  us. 

Later  they  all  rode  away,  and  Maurice  with 
them,  leaving  me  to  pack  for  our  exeunt  that 
afternoon  to  a  little  place  called  Water-lily  Farm. 
It  was  the  home  of  a  fellow  N.  C.  of  Maurice's;  he 
had  just  prepared  it  for  his  wife  who  was  coming 
out  from  home ,  but  with  the  ready  good-fellowship 
so  common  in  Africa  had  offered  it  to  Maurice  for 
our  honeymoon;  and  we,  both  anxious  that  the 
world  should  guess  nothing  of  our  strange  bargain, 
had  accepted  it  to  stay  in  and  spend  the  first  few 
days  of  our  married  life. 

Maurice  was  delayed  in  Salisbury,  and  it  was 
late  afternoon  before  he  fetched  me  at  last  from 
my  brother's  house. 

The  pale  May  sunshine  was  almost  as  cheerless 

339 


34°  The  Claw 

as  that  of  an  early  spring  day  in  England,  for  the 
winter  was  coming  on  rapidly,  and  winter  in  Africa 
can  be  very  bleak  indeed.  I  was  glad  to  wrap 
myself  in  a  warm  coat  and  lean  back  in  the 
shelter  of  the  little  tented  cart  we  were  to  make  the 
journey  in.  It  was  only  large  enough  for  two, 
and  Maurice,  obliged  to  manage  the  restive 
horses,  had  little  time  to  talk,  for  which  I  was 
curiously  thankful.  Passing  through  Salisbury 
he  discovered  that  he  had  left  his  watch  at  his 
rooms  and  asked  if  I  would  mind  his  calling  there 
for  it.  I  made  no  demur  of  course,  only,  knowing 
that  he  lived  in  a  row  of  bachelor  chambers  almost 
next  door  to  the  Club,  I  stipulated  that  he  should 
pull  up  a  few  hundred  yards  away.  I  had  driven 
and  ridden  past  the  Club  before,  and  knew  some- 
thing of  the  insouciant  curiosity  of  its  members, 
and  their  happy  habit  of  filling  the  verandah  of 
sound  of  a  horse  or  wheels. 

"They're  rather  fresh,"  hesitated  Maurice  as 
I  took  the  reins. 

"Oh,  Maurice!  Do  you  think  I  can't  manage 
two  old  Mashonaland  nags?"  I  smiled. 

So  he  left  me,  and  as  I  watched  him  go,  tall, 
nonchalant,  and  graceful,  taking  long  strides  over 
the  knolly  ground,  I  asked  myself  if  it  could  really 
be  true  that  I  was  married,  and  that — my  husband ! 

Frogs  were  beginning  to  croak  in  the  swampy 
marsh  between  the  Kopje  and  the  Causeway.  I 
could  hear  far-off  voices,  and  see  the  smoke  of 
others'  homes  against  the  evening  sky.  But  a 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  341 

terrible  soul-sickness  crept  over  me:  the  sickness 
of  a  soul  that  has  lost  its  mate.  At  that  moment 
I  seemed  quite  alone  in  the  world.  Some  words 
of  Gordon's  that  a  dying  man  in  Fort  George  had 
been  fond  of  muttering  flitted  through  my  mind : 

"Oh  whisper,  buried  Love,  is  there  rest  and  peace 

about ! 

There  is  little  help  or  comfort  here  below! 
On   your  dead  face  lies  the  mould,  and  your  bed 
is  straight  and  cold " 

Voices  and  the  sound  of  horses  coming  along 
the  road  broke  my  dreary  reverie.  A  man's  rather 
sardonic  laugh  reached  me,  and  a  voice  I  seemed 
to  know,  yet  could  not  recall  the  owner  of.  The 
riders  were  still  a  long  distance  off  but  sounds 
travel  far  on  the  clear  high  air  of  Rhodesia,  and  I 
presently  heard  some  words  as  distinctly  and  plainly 
as  if  they  were  spoken  beside  me  in  the  cart. 

"He  is  not  a  fellow  I  have  ever  cared  about — 
I  found  out  long  ago  that  he  is  not  straight. 
Another  thing,  he  's  too  fond  of  his  little  quiet 
tot  by  himself. — I  like  a  man  that  drinks  with  his 
fellows — not  one  of  your  soakers  in  his  bed- 
room." 

"Well!  I  '11  tell  you  what  /  don't  like  about 
him,  Bell,  he  has  n't  the  pluck  of  a  louse — there 
was  a  little  incident  here  in  Salisbury  just  after  he 
came  up — then  again,  at  Fort  George,  he  played 
sick  with  a  sprained  arm  rather  than  go  into 
Matabeleland  with  the  others.  Sprained  arm! 


342  The  Claw 

Sprained  grandmother — and  I  told  him  so!  He 
slunk  out  of  my  office  like  a  dog! " 

"  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  him  marrying  that 
fine  girl." 

How  careless  people  are  about  what  they  say 
of  others:  I  mused.  Small  wonder  one's  secrets 
are  not  one's  own  in  a  land  where  a  reputation 
can  be  damned  on  the  highroad  for  all  the 
world  to  hear ! 

I  had  heard  a  man's  honour — all  that  was  worth 
keeping  in  this  sad  old  world — dispensed  with,  in  a 
few  cynical  but  strangely  convincing  words.  How 
cruel  life  was !  How  tragic !  I  shivered  and  wished 
Maurice  would  come. 

I  could  see  the  backs  of  the  two  men  now  as  they 
rode  blithely  upon  their  way,  having  saddened  me 
with  the  sordid  tale  of  a  man's  secret  sins  that 
were  no  secret!  the  story  of  some  poor  fellow's 
stumbling  journey  down  hill  instead  of  up! 
Men  were  very  pitiless  in  their  judgments  I 
thought.  Perhaps  the  other  man  was  not  so 
despicable  after  all.  But  secret  drinking,  cow- 
ardice! Those  were  terrible  sins  —  none  more 
revolting  to  a  woman's  mind — and  not  straight; 
the  hardest  thing  one  man  can  say  of  another! 
Surely  there  had  been  no  such  man  in  Fort 
George! — I  had  never  heard  of  one,  and  I  had 
heard  most  things  in  that  tragic  little  town. — 
I  could  think  of  no  one  whom  such  condemnation, 
fitted.  Monty  Skeffington-Smythe  perhaps?— 
but  no;  his  faults  were  open  and  above-board 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  343 

for  all  the  world  to  see — nothing  hidden  there, 
not  even  his  preference  for  laager  in  time  of 
war!  Anyway  it  was  no  business  of  mine — I 
ought  to  have  been  ashamed  to  be  speculating 
about  it  even,  and  I  was.  But  why  did  Maurice 
stay  so  long?  What  could  be  keeping  him? 

Some  one  who  played  sick  rather  than  go  into 
Matabeleland — But  they  were  all  so  keen! — all 
except  baggy  old  Dr.  Abingdon.  Ah !  now  I  knew 
whose  voice  that  was — Dr.  Abingdon 's  of  course — 
the  blase  old  doctor  with  his  goat-like  leer,  and  his 
pretentions  that  fear  kept  him  from  Matabeleland, 
when  as  we  had  found  out  afterwards  he  had  abso- 
lutely begged  to  go,  and  been  refused  on  account 
of  his  gout — the  dear  old  doctor!  His  value  had 
been  only  too  well  proved  in  the  hospital  work 
he  had  done  later — in  the  big  fights  he  had  put 
up  for  men's  lives,  and  won  out,  when  every  one 
else  despaired.  ...  I  had  heard  of  his  recent 
arrival  in  Salisbury,  and  was  hoping  to  see  him 
before  I  left. 

With  the  knowledge  that  it  was  he  who  had  been 
speaking,  my  curiosity  was  once  more  aroused  by 
the  words  I  had  heard.  Against  my  will  my  mind 
persistently  went  back  again  to  the  subject.  Who 
of  all  his  patients  in  Fort  George  had  a  sprained 
arm  Ah! — suddenly  I  remembered! 

Afterwards,  all  the  words  I  had  heard  floating 
so  idly  on  the  clear  air  came  back  one  by  one,  like 
little  birds  of  ill-omen,  to  roost  in  my  memory  and 
sing  in  my  ears.  It  seemed  that  my  brain  had 


344  The  Claw 

taken  down  everything  in  shorthand — there  was 
nothing  in  that  brief  conversation  that  I  had 
forgotten ! 

When  Maurice  climbed  in  beside  me  and  took 
the  reins  from  my  hands  he  exclaimed  at  their 
coldness. 

"Good  Lord!  you  're  frozen,"  he  said.  "Why, 
it  isn't  cold!" 

As  he  turned  towards  me  I  caught  from  his  lips 
that  faint  sickly  odour  of  spirits  I  had  long  ago 
learnt  to  associate  with  African  scenery. 

"I  am  not  cold,"  I  said  in  a  voice  that  in  spite 
of  my  striving  must  have  given  some  sign  of  the 
inquietude  of  my  soul,  for  he  gave  me  a  curious 
glance  as  the  horses  lunged  forward. 

"Oh!  cheer  up,  my  dear  girl,  for  God's  sake! 
This  is  not  a  funeral." 

I  was  so  utterly  taken  aback  at  this  remark, 
unlike  in  tone  and  words  anything  I  had  heard 
from  him  before,  that  for  an  instant  I  almost 
forgot  the  terror  that  in  the  last  few  moments 
had  crept  like  a  little  cold  slimy  snake  about  my 
heart.  Suddenly  I  burst  into  a  convulsive  laugh, 
so  strange  in  sound  that  it  should  surely  have 
betrayed  me.  But  no,  he  did  not  perceive  the 
genre  of  my  laughter.  He  was  satisfied  that  I 
laughed. 

"That 's  right!"  he  approved,  whipping  up  the 
horses.  "And  as  soon  as  we  get  round  the  Kopje 
I  '11  give  you  a  little  whiskey  to  warm  you  up.  I 
never  drink  anything  myself,  but  its  a  good  thing 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  345 

to  keep  the  cold  out,  and  I  Ve  brought  a  bottle 
with  me  in  case  of  accidents." 

I  laughed  again  then,  a  merry  ringing  laugh, 
extraordinarily  like  Mrs.  Rockwood's  in  the  old 
Fort  George  days.  He  lashed  at  the  horses  and 
we  tore  through  the  town  in  clouds  of  dust. 
When  he  made  to  pull  up,  almost  opposite 
the  cemetery,  I  clutched  spasmodically  at  his 
arm. 

"Don't  stop,  Maurice.  I  don't  want  whiskey," 
I  stammered.  "  I — I  cannot  even  bear  the  thought 
of  spirits.  Please,  please  drive  on." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  he  said  in  an  impatient  voice. 
"All  right,  if  you  don't  care  about  it.  As  I  said 
before,  I  never  drink  myself  but  it  is  a  good  thing 
to  keep  out  the  cold." 

He  turned  and  observed  me  with  something  like 
suspicion  in  his  manner,  and  again  the  faint  sickly 
odour  crept  past  me. 

We  were  travelling  now  at  a  slackened  speed. 
There  was  time  and  opportunity  for  conversation, 
and  driven  by  the  cold  little  snake  that  wound 
itself  tighter  and  tighter  round  my  heart,  I 
hastened  to  make  it. 

"What  detained  you,  Maurice?  You  were 
away  a  long  time!" 

"Some  brute  had  been  ransacking  my  room.  I 
found  the  place  in  absolute  confusion.  As  far  as 
I  could  see  at  a  glance  not  a  thing  had  been  stolen, 
but  everything  was  all  over  the  place — papers, 
letters,  clothes !  I  picked  up  the  important  things 


346  The  Claw 

and  stuffed  them  in  my  pockets,  no  time  to  put 
anything  away;  besides,  all  the  padlocks  had  been 
burst  off  everything.  I  think  I  can  guess  who  it 
was — a  nigger  I  discharged  last  week,  and  to 
punish  him  took  away  from  him  a  charm  that 
some  witch  doctor  had  given  him.  That 's  what 
he  was  after,  no  doubt,  but  he  did  n't  get  it, 
the  brute,  for  I  have  it  on  me,  that  's  some 
satisfaction.  Good  God!  what  a  mess  the  place 
was  in!" 

"Why  did  you  take  his  charm,  Maurice?"  I 
asked,  not  from  curiosity  but  from  a  wild  desire 
to  keep  talking. 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  that!  There  is  one  thing 
I  must  ask  you,  Deirdre — never  interfere  with  me 
and  my  boys." 

For  the  second  time  that  night  I  flushed  hotly 
at  the  tone  he  used,  resenting  its  unpardonable 
rudeness.  It  was  on  my  tongue  to  answer  him 
proudly  that  he  would  not  need  to  make  the  re- 
quest twice;  but  remembering  all  the  plans  and 
resolutions  I  had  taken  to  the  altar  a  few  hours 
before,  I  bit  the  words  back  before  they  could 
escape,  and  found  courage  to  say  instead,  with  as 
much  gentleness  as  I  could  conjure : 

"Of  course  not.  You  know  that  my  wish 
is  to  help,  not  hinder  you,  or  interfere  in  any 
way." 

"That's  all  right  then,"  said  he  in  a  tone  so 
extremely  domineering  and  self-satisfied,  that  my 
spirits  drooped  even  a  little  lower  than  before. 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  347 

But  I  picked  them  up  again,  I  forced  myself  to  be 
gay  and  sociable,  I  laughed  (like  Saba  Rookwood), 
.  and  talked  of  anything  and  everything  that  could 
have  any  possible  interest  for  him,  even"  while  the 
knowledge  began  to  push  itself  into  my  mind  that 
there  were  strangely  few  subjects  of  common  in- 
terest between  us ;  and  the  wonder  began  to  make 
itself  felt  that  I  had  never  before  noticed  how  little 
he  had  to  say  on  any  subject.  He  had  always 
been  so  quiet,  so  chivalrously,  gently  silent,  that 
I  had  perhaps  given  him  credit  for  depth  and 
feeling  that  were  not  there.  No,  no,  I  struggled 
against  that  thought,  and  jested  on,  occupying 
my  tongue  with  incessant  remarks. 

At  last  the  lights  of  our  temporary  home  bea- 
coned across  the  veldt  and  the  interminable  drive 
came  to  an  end. 


j  Water-lily  Farm  consisted  of  three  thatched 
rooms,  and  a  few  straggling  huts  dumped  on  the 
wide  and  rolling  plain  with  horizon  all  round. 
As  we  drove  up  in  the  chilly  gloom  we  saw  that  the 
beaconing  lights  came  from  lamps  with  green  glass 
shades  that  gleamed  like  anaemic  stars  from  the 
windows  of  the  bungalow.  A  dog  barked  fretfully 
in  the  verandah,  and  a  boy  came  running  out  with 
some  information  in  the  native  language. 

''He  says  there  's  a  letter  from  Bingham  on  the 
table,"  remarked  Maurice.  "Wait  a  moment, 
I  '11  go  and  see."  He  sprang  from  the  cart, 


348  The  Claw 

catching  his  coat  on  some  projection  and  sending  a 
shower  of  papers  and  things  flying  from  his  over- 
crammed  pockets.  I  collected  them  as  best  I 
could  in  the  darkness,  while  he  went  within,  and 
found  the  letter.  He  presently  came  out  again 
calling  to  me: 

"  That  Js  all  right.  It 's  only  to  say  he  is  sorry 
he  had  to  go  off  on  duty  and  could  n't  wait  to 
welcome  us;  but  our  boxes  of  provisions  have 
arrived  and  everything  is  O.  K.  Go  inside,  dear, 
while  I  see  about  the  horses  with  the  boy.  If 
anything  happens  to  them  I  shall  have  to  pay." 

He  helped  me  down,  and  I  went  into  the  homely 
little  living-room  lighted  by  the  pale-green  lamps. 
The  supper-table  was  carefully  laid  out  with  an 
attempt  at  grace  that  was  more  touching  than 
successful.  As  I  looked  at  the  clumsy  little  bunches 
of  wild  flowers  arranged  in  tumblers,  I  felt  that 
Bingham  was  a  pleasant  fellow.  There  was  an 
honest,  serene  air  about  the  simple  room  with 
its  canvas  deck-chairs,  cane  lounge,  white-wood 
book  shelves  and  framed  photographs  of  English 
people  on  the  walls.  The  woman  who  was  coming 
from  England  to  her  man  here  should  be  very 
happy,  I  thought. 

A  light  from  the  door  of  an  adjoining  room 
drew  me  thither,  but  before  I  reached  it  I 
passed  some  boxes  piled  against  the  wall — open 
packing  cases  full  of  provisions:  canned  beef, 
biscuits,  bottles  of  preserved  fruits,  loose  potatoes, 
a  case  of  champagne.  There  was  another  case 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  349 

also,  nailed  up  and  branded  with  the  name  of  John 
Dewar  and  Sons.  I  had  lived  long  enough  in 
Rhodesia  to  know  that  these  were  not  the  names 
of  gentlemen-philanthropists  who  lived  in  the 
Imperial  Institute  and  provided  packing-case 
seats  in  the  open  air  for  the  public.  I  now 
recognised  a  case  of  whiskey  when  I  saw  one.  I 
fled  from  the  room  and  from  my  thoughts 

The  next  room  had  nothing  in  it  but  a  whole- 
some smell  of  pipe- tobacco,  a  rough  desk  with 
many  papers  piled  on  it,  some  racks  of  shelves, 
and  a  chair:  obviously  Mr.  Bingham's  office. 

More  simplicity  in  the  bedroom:  white  mats, 
a  white  dressing-table  of  unpainted  wood,  a  sheet 
of  mirror  in  a  white  frame,  a  large  white  double 
bed.  I  gazed  at  that  large  white  bed,  fascinated, 
while  the  knowledge  crept  slowly  over  me  that 
there  was  no  other  bed  in  the  house.  At  last  I 
turned  away,  and  then  I  saw  that  in  the  mirror 
there  was  a  woman  who  matched  all  the  other 
white  things  in  the  room — a  deathly  white  woman 
with  a  gay- tragic  face,  standing  very  still,  her 
clutching  hands  full  of  papers.  I  stared  at  the 
papers  for  a  moment  wondering  what  they  were, 
then  remembered  picking  them  up  in  the  cart.  I 
was  holding  a  little  green  leather  case  too,  that  I 
had  gathered  up  with  them — something  Maurice 
had  dropped.  I  recalled  having  heard  the  little 
dull  thud  of  it  as  it  fell.  It  was  a  jewel-case,  a 
small,  new-looking,  green  leather  box,  and  when  I 
saw  that  it  was  half  open  I  wondered  if  anything 


350  The  Claw 

had  been  lost  out  of  it.  My  mind  turned  to  that 
question  as  though  it  was  of  importance  far 
greater  than  the  one  that  was  blanching  my 
cheeks  and  chilling  my  blood.  It  was  imperative 
that  I  should  fasten  my  mind  on  something  outside 
itself,  and  I  fastened  it  with  avidity  on  the  little 
green  jewel-case  half  open  in  my  hand. 

"Perhaps  something  is  lost  out  of  it,"  I  re- 
peated mechanically;  something  of  Maurice's — 
something  of  my  husband's ! 

I  opened  it  entirely,  looked  in,  and  found  that  it 
contained  one  blue  turquoise  ear-ring. 

It  was  a  very  new  little  box,  with  the  name  of  the 
same  Durban  jeweller  to  whom  I  had  sold  my 
rings,  printed  in  bright  gold  letters  on  the  white 
satin  lid.  (Of  course!  I  remembered  it  was 
Maurice  who  had  given  me  the  man's  address.) 

The  one  ear-ring  was  stuck  into  a  dent  in  the 
white  velvet  cushion ;  by  its  side  was  another  little 
dent — empty. 

"The  other  ear-ring  must  have  been  lost,"  I  said 
to  the  woman  in  the  glass.  She  made  no  reply. 

"The  other — must  have  been  lost!"  I  repeated, 
but  I  did  not  hear  my  voice,  and  though  I  saw 
that  the  lips  of  the  woman  in  the  glass  were 
moving,  no  sound  came  from  them. 

Then  I  noticed  an  odd  thing.  The  woman  in 
the  glass  was  tearing  open  the  front  of  her  gown : 
tearing  it  open  with  shaking  frantic  hands  to  get 
at  something  that  she  wore  against  her  heart  in 
a  little  silken  bag. 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  351 

I  did  not  see  her  again  for  a  long  while.  When  I 
looked  up  at  last  she  was  still  standing  there: 
only  the  white  lips  in  the  gay-tragic  face  were 
smiling,  a  brooding  subtle  smile,  that  had  in  it  a 
strange  mingling  of  triumph,  despair,  hatred — and 
some  other  desperate  element  that  might  have  been 
hope  or  madness;  and  the  little  leather  jewel-box 
in  her  hands  contained  two  ear-rings.  The  lost 
one  had  been  found. 


Steps  in  the  verandah  dragged  me  away  from 
the  glass  and  the  fascinating  things  I  saw  there. 
I  crossed  the  room  swiftly,  and  closing  the  door 
locked  it;  there  was  also  a  wooden  button  to 
turn,  and  a  large  bolt  which  slid  into  its  socket 
soundlessly. 

I  returned  to  the  dressing-table  and  my  contem- 
plation of  the  contents  of  the  pretty  new  box 
from  Durban.  I  examined  them  as  carefully  as  if 
I  were  a  jeweller;  as  if  I  had  never  seen  a  turquoise 
ear-ring  before  and  might  never  see  one  again. 
The  gold  setting  of  one  was  tarnished  with  mud; 
tiny  particles  of  dirt  were  still  clinging  to  it;  but 
the  stone  was  undimmed  blue,  and  resembled 
in  every  particular  its  radiant  mate  which  had 
plainly  never  left  a  white  velvet  bed  to  make 
acquaintance  with  mud.  They  were  screw  ear- 
rings, meant  to  pass  through  a  hole  in  the  ear  and 
screw  behind  the  lobe  with  a  little  gold  washer 
like  a  miniature  bicycle-nut.  Both  nuts  were  in 


352  The  Claw 

place  and  the  hold  wire  thread  on  which  they  were 
screwed  was  quite  unworn.  When  I  had  removed 
all  traces  of  mud  and  stain  from  the  one  and  pol- 
ished it  with  a  handkerchief,  they  were  both  as 
flawless  and  new  as  when  they  left  the  jeweller's; 
you  could  not  tell  one  from  the  other. 


The  only  interruptions  I  suffered  in  my  engross- 
ing occupation  were  the  sounds  of  tins  and  bottles 
being  opened  and  occasional  shouts  to  me  to 
hurry  up  and  come  to  supper.  To  these  I  paid 
no  attention  .until  they  were  accompanied  by 
thumpings  on  the  door. 

"What  have  you  locked  yourself  in  for?  Do 
hurry  up,  for  God's  sake!  I  'm  as  hungry  as 
the  devil.  Deirdre!  what  on  earth  are  you 
doing?" 

I  was  considering  with  her  the  fate  of  the  woman 
in  the  glass. 

"Are  we  or  are  we  not  going  to  eat  anything 
to-night?" 

"You  may  eat  without  me,"  I  called  out  in  a 
clear  voice.  "  I  do  not  need  any  food. ' ' 

"The  devil  you  don't!"     There  was  a  pause. 

"But —  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with 
you,  my  dear  girl.  Of  course  you  must  eat — 
what 's  the  matter?  Are  you  angry  about 
anything? — Damn  it!  what  kind  of  behaviour  is 
this?  Open  the  door." 

"I  do  not  intend  to  open  the  door,  Maurice, 


What  a  Jeweller  Made  353 

until — I  have  come  to  a  decision.  You  had  better 
go  away  and  not  waste  your  breath  speaking  to 
me." 

He  wasted  a  good  deal  more  breath,  however, 
before  he  went  away.  The  next  sound  was  the 
pop  of  a  champagne  cork  hitting  the  ceiling,  and 
the  little  water-fall  rush  of  wine  into  a  glass. 
Afterwards  the  boy  was  roughly  and  loudly 
told  to  "Hambeela  and  get  out."  Later  a 
knife  and  fork  clattered  on  plates,  and  there 
were  more  pops  and  water-fall  rushes.  At  length 
a  silence.  The  scent  of  a  cigarette  crept  into  the 
room. 

"What  now?"  I  wondered  dully.  Having 
finished  considering  the  problem  of  the  future  with 
my  reflection,  I  went  and  sat  on  the  large  white 
bed  which  no  longer  had  any  terrors  for  me.  I 
heard  the  front  door  being  locked,  then  steps 
across  the  room  to  my  door  once  more. 

"Is  this  a  game,  Deirdre?" 

I  did  not  answer. 

"If  you  do  not  unlock  the  door  I  will  break  it 
in!"  he  said  in  the  same  loud  bullying  voice  he 
had  used  to  the  boy,  but  which  did  not  alarm  me  at 
all.  I  knew  now  that  it  was  a  coward's  voice — 
a  coward's  and  a  liar's:  my  husband's! 

I  looked  at  the  stout,  unpainted  deal  door  and 
then  at  some  kaffir  curios  fastened  to  the  wall  on 
either  side  of  it  in  rather  picturesque  groups. 
There  was  quite  a  collection  of  strangely  shaped 
knives  and  assegais. 
23 


354  The  Claw 

"Do  you  hear?    I  shall  break  in  the  door." 

"You  may  do  what  you  wish.  But  if  you  come 
in  here  I  will  kill  you." 

My  voice  was  very  low  and  quiet,  but  the  hatred 
in  it  carried  through  the  door  like  a  dagger 
aimed  at  his  heart,  and  he  drew  away  as  if  it  had 
reached  him.  A  moment  later  he  laughed — a 
coward's  laugh — uncertain  at  the  beginning,  then, 
taking  courage  from  its  own  loud  sound,  bluster- 
ing at  the  end.  Afterwards  he  sought  in  more 
champagne  courage  to  fulfil  his  threat:  but  he 
found  what  was  better  for  him  at  that  time — 
oblivion. 

As  for  me,  I  lay  on  the  great  white  bed  with 
crushed  face  and  clenched  hands,  and  asked  God 
for  death.  At  first  I  was  a  woman  in  agony,  a 
tortured  and  tricked  woman  whose  sorrows  were 
too  many  for  her,  whose  right  was  death  as  the  only 
solution  of  the  sordid  problem.  But  afterwards 
I  was  only  a  weeping  child,  sobbing  over  the  wreck- 
age of  my  life,  and  crying  out  in  the  words  of  my 
childhood's  prayers: 

"Oh,  gentle  Jesus!  .  .  .  Oh,  Mary!  .  .  .  have 
pity  on  me!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHAT   THE  DAWN    HEARD 
"The  means  of  a  man's  ruin  are  on  his  tongue." 

IN  the  bleak  grey  dawn  I  unlocked  the  door  and 
sought  my  husband. 

He  was  sleeping,  sprawled  in  a  canvas  chair 
beside  the  table  frowsy  now,  and  littered  with 
empty  tins,  spilt  wine,  and  overturned  flowers. 
His  mouth  hung  open,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  weak 
and  loose;  that  his  dark  skin  was  yellowed,  not 
tanned ;  that  his  eyes  were  set  with  a  sinister  close- 
ness to  his  handsome  thin  nose ;  that  under  them 
lay  the  mean  lines  of  secret  sins;  that  his  hands 
were  not  the  staunch,  square  hands  of  a  man  that 
could  work  for  a  woman  and  take  hold  of  her  heart 
and  keep  it  for  himself  against  all  comers;  they 
were  long  and  cruel  and  womanish,  and  looked  as 
though  they  knew  only  how  to  tear  and  wring 
and  destroy. 

While  he  snored  I  drank  to  the  dregs  the 
bitterness  of  my  cup.  I  was  bound  to  this 
drunkard  and  liar  for  all  my  days.  And  Anthony 

355 


356  The  Claw 

Kinsella  was  alive.  I  knew  that  he  was  alive. 
If  all  the  angels  in  Heaven  had  come  down  to  tell 
me  now  that  he  was  not  living  I  would  not  have 
listened.  I  knew  that  he  was  living  and  breathing 
somewhere  in  this  land  that  he  loved.  7  had 
always  known  it.  But  I  had  let  this  man  blunt 
my  instinct  and  blur  my  soul's  vision  with  his 
base  lies ;  and  he  had  profited  by  the  blindness  of 
suffering  to  trick  me  with  a  lie  and  an  ear-ring 
dipped  in  mud  to  convince  me  of  my  lover's 
death!  It  seemed  to  me  a  shameful  thing  that 
I  should  have  been  so  easily  convinced.  Now  that 
my  faith  had  come  back  in  a  great  sweeping  tide 
I  convicted  myself  of  base  treason  in  the  haste 
I  had  made  to  believe  the  false  tale.  But  faith, 
reproaches,  discovery — all  came  too  late,  for  me. 
Anthony  was  living — somewhere;  but  not  for  me. 
Here  was  the  mate  I  had  given  myself,  snoring 
before  me  in  drunken  slumber!  Lest  I  should 
strike  him  on  his  open  lying  mouth,  I  fled  from  the 
room. 

In  the  verandah  the  austere,  sweet  air  of  dawn 
greeted  my  burning  temples  and  lulled  the  fever 
of  my  burning  cheeks  and  hands.  The  stars  were 
paling  to  whiteness  and  falling  away  into  lemon- 
tinted  distance.  Shadowy  hands  tipped  with 
faintest  rose  reached  down  from  the  skies,  gather- 
ing the  mists  of  night  back  into  the  bosom  of  the 
clouds;  and  the  land,  like  some  subtly  tinted  Jap- 
anese map  on  which  was  traced  streams,  grasses, 
and  flying  birds,  swiftly  unrolled  itself  to  the  eye, 


What  the  Dawn  Heard  357 

yard  by  yard,  mile  by  mile.  A  line  of  mauve- 
tinted  hills  appeared  suddenly  on  the  horizon,  as 
though  sketched  in  by  some  rapid,  skilful  hand. 

A  strange  thing  about  the  veldt  is  that  if  you 
stare  long  at  it  when  you  are  happy  your  eyes  will 
fill  with  tears,  and  an  indefinable  sorrow  surges  in 
your  veins.  But  go  to  it  when  you  are  wretched, 
and  its  beauty  will  lay  shadowy  hands  on  you 
and  bless  you  and  enfold  you,  and  something  will 
wing  its  way  into  your  heart  like  a  white  heron  of 
peace,  and  nestling  there  give  you  comfort  and 
courage. 

As  I  re-entered  the  room  the  man  in  the  chair 
opened  his  eyes  and  regarded  me  stupidly.  We 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  while.  I  was 
surprised  to  see  that  the  eyes  I  had  always  thought 
to  be  a  deep  and  rather  beautiful  brown  were 
really  as  yellow  as  an  eagle's :  the  effect  of  darkness 
was  given  by  a  number  of  brown  spots  scattered 
closely  on  the  iris.  When  the  eyes  were  opened 
the  little  mean  lines  disappeared,  and  a  curious 
deferential  expression  took  their  place.  His 
colouring  was  dusky,  almost  mournful,  but  he  had 
beautiful  teeth  that  lit  up  his  face  when  he  smiled, 
and  the  effect  was  that  fleeting  suggestion  of 
chivalrousness  that  had  impressed  me  so  deeply 
and  was  so  false.  He  was  smiling  now,  but  the 
chivalrous  engagement  was  absent.  His  gaze  had 
quickly  changed  from  stupidity  to  one  of  sneering 
anger. 

"So  you  have  deigned  to  come  forth  at  last! 


358  The  Claw 

Would  it  be  troubling  you  too  much  to  ask  for  an 
explanation  of  your  charming  behaviour?" 

With  an  affectation  of  carelessness  which  his 
furtive  glance  and  shaking  hand  denied,  he  took 
out  a  cigarette  and  lit  it. 

Without  speaking  I  laid  upon  the  table  the  little 
green  jewel-case,  open — with  the  blue  stones 
smiling  on  their  satin  cushion. 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  silence,  and  as 
I  watched  him  with  disdain  and  hatred  I  could 
not  control,  I  saw  that  he  was  not  taken  una- 
wares. He  knew  what  I  had  found,  and  had 
his  tale  ready.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  he 
was  ready  to  burden  his  soul  with  fresh  lies.  I 
had  yet  to  find  that  this  was  ever  his  way.  He 
never  confessed  a  fault,  but  lied  to  cover  it,  and  if 
the  lies  were  not  long  enough  or  broad  enough  he 
lied  again;  and  if  you  still  did  not  believe  he  lied 
on  and  on — useless,  futile  lies. 

What  pretty  ear-rings,  he  said.  Where  did  I  get 
them?  They  were  just  like  a  pair  he  had  bought 
intending  to  give  me;  but  he  had  remembered  in 
time  that  turquoises  meant  unhappy  memories 
for  me,  so  he  had  kept  them,  and  by  Jove,  yes! 
when  he  had  found  his  things  all  over  the  place  in 
his  rooms  he  had  come  upon  the  box,  too,  but  with 
only  one  ear-ring  in  it,  and  had  thought  that  brute 
Makupi  had  taken  it  (he  forgot  he  had  told  me 
the  boy  had  stolen  nothing).  Perhaps  he  had  the 
thing  in  his  pocket  now.  (He,  in  fact,  affected  to 
make  a  search,  feeling  in  all  his  pockets,  then 


What  the  Dawn  Heard  359 

looked  more  closely  at  the  box  on  the  table.) 
Why!  this  was  the  very  box — but  of  course  I 
must  have  picked  it  up  in  the  cart — then  the 
ear-ring  had  not  been  lost  after  all !  At  first  he  had 
thought  it  was  a  pair  of  my  own  I  was  showing 
him — a  pair  just  like  those  he  had  bought, 
—for  that  class  of  screw  ear-ring  was  all  made  alike 
— a  jeweller  had  told  him  so.  They  were  all  made 
exactly  in  the  same  way — you  could  n't  tell  one  pair 
from  another. 

Fascinated,  I  stood  watching  him  weave  his 
tangle  of  lies  and  uttering  them  between  little  puffs 
of  smoke.  If  it  had  not  been  so  horrible  it  would 
have  been  an  interesting  study  in  soul  pathology. 
I  had  never  met  any  one  with  an  idiosyncrasy  like 
this;  never  known  a  man  who  thought  it  worth 
while  to  lie  at  all,  certainly  not  in  this  idle  yet 
curiously  intent  way.  Could  he  be  mad,  I  won- 
dered. With  each  new  lie  or  portion  of  one  his 
confidence  increased.  The  last  part  of  his  state- 
ment, made  with  the  utmost  aplomb,  was  an  in- 
spiration. I  saw  the  gleam  of  the  creator  in  his 
eye  as  he  propounded  it.  And  when  I  still  gazed 
at  him  in  stony-eyed  fascination  he  repeated  it 
with  an  assurance  almost  childish. 

1 '  All  blue  ear-rings  are  alike.  Yes :  that  fellow  in 
Durban  told  me  so  when  we  were  talking  about  ear- 
rings once  long  ago.  Perhaps  that  is  why  you  are 
upset — old  memories,  I  suppose.  You  are  thinking 
of  that  chap  Kinsella.  Still,  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  treat  me  like  a  dog  on  that  account." 


360  The  Claw 

His  tone  became  injured  and  indignant  once 
more.  There  were  to  be  no  more  propitiatory 
inventions.  He  had  explained  the  whole  thing 
satisfactorily  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  and  the 
subject  was  now  closed.  He  swept  it  away  with 
his  tobacco  smoke,  and  returned  to  his  grievance 
against  me. 

"On  a  man's  wedding  night!  To  drive  him 
in  to  get  beastly  drunk  out  of  sheer  misery  and 
loneliness!  I  have  told  you  before  that  I 
never  drink  anything,  but  last  night," — he 
waved  at  the  empty  champagne  bottles — "upon 
my  soul  I  think  this  lapse  should  be  forgiven 
me." 

Half  unconsciously  my  eyes  sought  the  wall 
where  the  packing  cases  stood;  the  case  of  whiskey 
was  gone.  It  had  been  spirited  away  in  the  night  to 
some  other  hut.  I  remembered  now  the  shuffling 
sounds  of  some  one  lifting  and  carrying  away  a 
heavy  weight. 

"But  I  am  willing  to  kiss  and  make  friends  if 
you  are." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  put  out  a  hand  with  the 
frank  manly  air  he  could  so  easily  assume  while 
the  half-modest,  half-chivalrous  smile  that  had 
always  attracted  me  flitted  across  his  face.  It  was 
an  elusive  expression  and  never  stayed  to  be  ex- 
amined ;  but  for  a  moment  it  bred  in  me  the  hope 
that  at  the  bottom  of  this  dark  soul  there  was  some 
spark  of  nobility,  covered  heavily  with  great 
weights,  perhaps,  but  smouldering  still.  I  must 


What  the  Dawn  Heard  361 

appeal  to  it  if  there  was  to  be  any  way  for  either 
of  us  out  of  this  tangled  wild. 

"Maurice,"  I  said  almost  gently,  "there  can 
be  no  kisses  between  you  and  me.  I  know  now 
that  you  have  lied  to  me  and  deceived  me,  and  the 
knowledge  is  so  terrible  that  I  can  hardly  bear  it. 
There  was  a  time  during  the  past  night  when  I 
could  have  killed  you  for  what  you  have  done.  I 
can  never  forget  it — it  is  no  use  saying  that. 
But  because  you  and  I  are  irrevocably  bound 
together  by  the  laws  of  my  religion  I  will  try  to 
forgive  you  if  you  will  give  me  time.  I  will  try 
only  to  remember  the  promises  I  made  to  you  at 
the  altar  a  few  hours  ago.  By  the  help  of  God  I 
will  keep  compact  with  you:  if  you  on  your  part 
will  not  lie  to  me  any  more,  and  will  strive  to 
be  the  honourable  man  I  believed  you  when  I 
married  you." 

He  gazed  at  me  with  a  sneering  mouth. 

"And  what  is  to  come  of  all  these  fine  compacts, 
may  one  ask?" 

What  indeed !  God  knew  best  what  house,  if 
any,  could  be  built  upon  the  shifting  sand  of  this 
man's  nature  and  the  ashes  of  my  heart's  desire! 
I  could  not  prophesy  with  my  hope;  I  could  only 
try  to  keep  from  my  voice  the  despair  that 
obsessed  me. 

"A  home  perhaps  that  you  and  I  can  live  in 
with  peace  and  honour,  Maurice,"  I  faltered  at 
last.  "Who  knows;  we  may  yet  build  some  fine 
thing  with  the  wreckage  of  our  old  selves.  If  we 


362  The  Claw 

learn  to  tolerate  and  help  and  comfort  each  other 
—will  not  that  be  something?  Perhaps  in  the  end 
friendship  may  come." 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  fleering  laugh. 

"Friendship!  You  think  that  is  what  a  man 
marries  a  beautiful  girl  like  you  for?  You  talk 
like  a  fool.  If  friendship  was  what  I  wanted  I 
could  have  got  it — and  a  jolly  sight  more,  too — 
without  tying  myself  up  for  life.  It  is  not  every 
woman  who  finds  me  so  objectionable  as  my  wife 
apparently  does.  Friendship  be  damned!" 

"It  is  all  I  ever  promised  you,"  I  broke  out  at 
him  then.  "  I  told  you  when  we  made  our  bargain 
that  you  must  expect  nothing  from  me  but  my 
presence  in  your  house,  and  my  help  in  your  career. 
You  swore  you  would  ask  nothing  more  of  me." 

"A  likely  story,"  he  answered.  "Who  ever 
means  those  torn-fool  things?/' 

"7  meant  them  if  you  did  not,  and  I  mean  to 
stand  by  them,"  I  said  firmly,  though  my  soul 
shook  at  this  faithlessness;  this  trampling  under 
foot  of  solemn  vows. 

"We  '11  see  about  that,"  he  said  darkly. 

"We  will  see  about  it  now.  It  will  be  finally  and 
definitely  settled  now,  or  I  will  leave  this  house, 
and  you.  If  your  promises  do  not  bind  you 
neither  will  I  be  bound  to  you." 

He  was  moved  at  last,  though  I  could  not  tell 
on  what  raw  place  of  pride  or  personal  vanity  my 
words  flicked  him.  His  manner  changed.  Con- 
sideration came  into  it,  and  some  trace  of  humility. 


What  the  Da\yn  Heard  363 

"Deirdre,  you  would  not  leave  me?" 

"Not  unless  you  force  me  to.  But  so  sure  as 
you  forget  the  compact  there  is  between  us, 
Maurice,  I  will  go.  Understand  now  clearly  and 
then  let  us  speak  of  it  no  more.  I  married  you 
believing  Anthony  Kinsella  to  be  dead,  and  hoping 
to  dedicate  the  rest  of  my  loveless  life  to  some- 
thing which  would  make  it  worth  the  living.  You 
offered  me  the  task  of  helping  you,  and  I  took  it 
with  a  clear  bargain  between  us,  and  a  hope.  Ah ! 
I  know  not  what  hope,  but  I  thought  that  perhaps 
—life  might  still  bear  some  little  gentle  flower.  And 
so  it  may."  I  found  courage  to  continue,  looking 
at  his  whitening  face:  "I  pray  God  for  your  sake, 
that  it  may.  But  you  must  not  forget,  Maurice, 
that  things  do  not  stand  just  where  they  were  that 
night  we  made  our  bargain;  do  not  forget  that  I 
gave  my  promise  with  a  lie  between  us  that  made 
all  the  difference  to  me;  that  now  I  know  the 
truth  and  believe  Anthony  Kinsella  still  alive  I  can 
no  more  help  loving  him  than  I  can  help  my  heart 
beating.  You  can  drive  me  from  your  home  if 
you  choose,  but  I  tell  you  that  I  love  him,  and  I 
will  never  forswear  my  love  for  him.  I  cannot 
now  ever  give  him  my  body  as  he  has  my  soul ;  but 
neither  will  I  give  it  to  another." 

My  voice  had  sunk  to  a  whisper.  My  words 
rustled  out  like  leaves  across  my  dry  lips.  He, 
too,  was  pallid-faced  and  stammering. 

"This  is  a  bitter  bargain!" 

"Not  less  for  you  than  for  me,"  I  contended 


364  The  Claw 

inexorably,  for  I  was  fighting  for  more  than  life. 
I  knew  that  if  this  last  appeal  failed  it  would  be  the 
end.  The  ship  of  our  marriage  must  founder, 
and  we  two,  like  broken,  useless  spars  float  apart 
on  dangerous  seas. 

For  me  the  thought  of  living  in  companionship 
with  this  man  held  nothing  but  terror  and  disgust. 
But  with  the  fervour  of  a  Catholic  I  clung  to  the 
marriage  vows  I  had  made,  not  only  because  my 
faith  and  the  traditions  of  all  the  clean,  pure 
women  of  my  ancestry  bade  me  do  it ;  but,  because 
I  terribly  feared  for  what  might  happen  when 
Anthony  Kinsella  came  riding  back  into  my  life, 
as  now  with  the  clear  prevision  of  an  Irishwoman  I 
knew  he  would. 

If  I  were  alone — married  and  yet  alone — and  he 
should  come  for  me,  would  I  refuse  to  go?  No,  no, 
no !  I  knew  the  spell  of  my  love  and  the  strength 
of  his  will  too  well  to  suppose  it!  Faith  and 
tradition  would  go  to  the  winds;  they  would  be 
burnt  up  in  the  fierce  flame  of  our  love. 

I  was  fighting  with  Maurice  Stair  for  my  soul. 
I  could  not  love  him;  he  was  an  unworthy  traitor 
and  liar,  but  I  was  his  wife  and  I  wanted  his  home 
and  name  to  shelter  me  from  sin.  Only,  I  would 
take  them  on  no  other  conditions  than  those  I  had 
named  to  him. 

Long,  long  we  stayed  there,  fighting  that  fight. 
I  cannot  remember  all  that  was  said.  I  only 
know  that  once  I  sank  into  a  chair  almost  fainting, 
that  once  there  was  a  time  when  he  wept  like  a 


What  the  Dawn  Heard          365 

child,  his  head  on  the  table.  At  another  he  re- 
viled me  until  my  knees  shook,  and  cursed  the 
hour  I  had  set  foot  in  his  life. 

But  at  last  when  the  sounds  of  broad  day  were 
all  about  us  and  the  room  full  of  leaping  sunshine, 
the  fight  was  over,  and  I  knew  that  my  will  had 
conquered.  The  victory,  if  so  it  could  be  called, 
was  to  me!  For  how  long  I  knew  not.  I  had 
learned  much  of  my  husband  in  those  dawn  hours 
of  weeping  and  reviling  and  recriminations;  and 
one  thing  I  knew — this  battle  would  be  often  to 
fight.  Life  with  Maurice  Stair,  unless  I  was  pre- 
pared to  surrender  my  will  to  his,  would  be  one 
long,  ceaseless  struggle — a  struggle  in  which  my 
adversary  would  disdain  no  weapon  or  device  to 
bring  me  down. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHAT  A  GOAD  PERFORMED 

"A  word  fitly  spoken  is  like  apples  of  silver  in  baskets  of 
gold." 

A  FEW  days  after  our  marriage  Maurice  went 
into  town,  and  came  back  to  Water-lily 
Farm  with  a  brief  but  interesting  statement/  - 

"We  shall  not  be  leaving  Mashonaland.  When 
I  made  you  some  such  promise  I  had  not  reckoned 
with  my  dear  uncle  Alexander.  It  appears  that 
he  objects  to  my  going  away  from  Africa." 

I  regarded  him  steadfastly  for  a  while,  trying  to 
read  between  the  lines  of  this  announcement. 

"What  has  made  him  change  his  mind  about 
helping  you  into  the  Consular  service,  Maurice?" 
I  asked,  not  without  a  shade  of  irony  I  must 
confess,  for  any  one  less  adapted  than  Maurice 
to  a  profession  in  which  high  principles,  tact, 
and  good  manners  are  essential  qualifications 
it  would  have  been  hard  to  find,  even  in  Africa, 
where  budding  diplomats  do  not  grow  on  every 
bush. 

"He  has  n't  changed  his  mind.     I  have  changed 

366 


What  a  Goad  'Performed         367 

mine  about  asking  him,  that  's  all.  I  know  it 
would  be  no  good,  anyway." 

He  got  into  the  verandah  hammock,  which  was 
also  his  bed,  propped  himself  comfortably  against 
a  cushion,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

From  my  deck-chair  I  stared  blankly  at  the 
surrounding  horizon.  To  say  that  I  was  agacee 
is  to  say  nothing.  Even  in  the  face  of  his  recently 
revealed  duplicity  I  was  unprepared  for  this  cool 
jettisoning  of  the  most  solemn  part  of  our  compact. 
It  left  me  breathless.  I  said  at  last : 

"What  is  there  to  prevent  you  from  leaving 
Africa  without  your  uncle's  consent  ?  You  are  not 
an  infant." 

"  No ;  I  wish  I  were.  Life  would  be  considerably 
simpler.  But  the  fact  is,  my  uncle  is  so  kind  as  to 
pay  me  five  hundred  a  year  to  stay  out  of  England, 
and  the  country  he  specifies  as  my  residence, 
being  a  nice  long  way  off  from  him,  is  Africa. 
The  moment  I  quit  he  '11  stop  payment,  and  I 
shall  have  nothing  to  live  on  but  my  lordly  salary 
of  twenty  quid  a  month." 

What  sinister  meaning  lurked  in  so  strange  an 
arrangement  I  shrank  from  asking,  but  I  had  an 
instinct  to  combat  it — an  instinct  that  was  roused 
in  me  twenty  times  a  day  as  my  husband's  char- 
acter unfolded  itself,  and  I  saw  upon  what  ignoble 
props  and  bolsters  his  life  was  arranged ;  how  slack 
were  his  moral  muscles;  how  low  his  code  of 
honour.  Sometimes,  when  I  realised  these  things, 
and  that  my  lot  was  irrevocably  cast  for  life  com- 


368  The  Claw 

panionship  with  a  man  who  so  deliberately  out- 
raged my  ideals  of  what  a  man  should  be,  and  what 
life  should  mean,  I  felt  like  a  trapped  creature,  and 
my  instinct  was  to  turn  in  bitter  rage  and  rend  the 
trap  with  teeth  and  nails.  But  what  good  in 
that?  And  what  good  in  all  my  fine  resolutions 
if  they  so  quickly  dissolved  in  the  face  of  disaster? 
I  smothered  down  indignation  and  disdain,  and 
used  a  gentleness  with  him  that,  knowing  my 
own  proud  ardent  heart,  surprised  myself.  With 
burning  cheeks  I  might  presently  have  been  heard 
pleading  with  him  to  throw  off  the  five-hundred- 
pound  yoke,  and  strike  out  on  his  own  account. 

"Surely  the  freedom  of  your  soul  is  worth  more 
than  five  hundred  a  year!"  I  cried.  "You  detest 
your  uncle,  why  take  his  money  under  such  an 
ignominious  condition?  Fling  his  money  into  his 
teeth  and  take  your  life  into  your  own  hands. 
Africa  is  not  the  only  country  on  the  map.  There 
are  still  Europe,  Asia,  America,  and  Australia. 
Let  us  go  to  Canada  and  start  a  farm,  open  a  shop, 
run  a  hotel — anything,  anywhere.  I  will  help  you 
at  whatever  you  put  your  hand  to,  Maurice,  and 
I  don't  care  how  poor  we  are.  Only  let  us  be 
honourable,  and  let  us  go  away  from  Africa." 

And  all  the  time  my  blood  was  leaping  and  my 
heart  quivering  at  the  thought  of  staying  on  in  this 
land,  behind  whose  silent  hills  and  dense  bush  the 
fate  of  Anthony  Kinsella  still  was  hidden.  To 
all  my  eloquence  he  puffed  at  his  cigarette  and 
returned  a  cool  stare. 


What  a  Goa4  Performed         369 

"Jack  up  five  hundred  a  year  and  go  and  look 
for  a  chance  living  in  some  new  country  where  I 
don't  know  the  ropes?  Not  much,  my  dear  girli 
I  know  my  own  limitations,  thanks,  and  how 
likely  I  'd  be  to  make  my  fortune  or  even  a  bare 
living  in  Canada  or  anywhere  else." 

"What  of  the  noble  career  you  were  to  carve  out 
for  yourself,"  I  flung  at  him,  hoping  that  scorn 
might  achieve  what  pleading  and  reasoning  failed 
to  do.  But  that  stone  broke  no  bones.  He 
merely  laughed  and  flung  one  back  at  me  with  a 
man's  sure  aim. 

"Why  should  I  bother  about  a  career,  since  I 
am  never  to  have  any  children  to  pass  my  glories 
on  to?" 

That  sealed  my  lips  from  further  retort.  I  sat 
still  and  stared  silently  at  the  passionate  blue  of 
the  skies,  and  the  radiant  sunlit  plain.  What  was 
the  use  of  struggling  against  the  witch  who  had  me 
in  her  toils  and  never  meant  to  let  me  go? 

"  If  she  loves  you,  she  will  keep  you,  whether  you 
will  or  no!"  Anthony  had  prophesied  on  just  such 
a  blue-and-gold  day,  when  life  went  sweetly  with 
us.  Well,  if  this  was  love,  it  was  a  strong,  austere 
passion,  hard  to  distinguish  from  hate.  Under 
its  fierce  cold  caress  I  could  truly  cry  with  the 
words  of  the  Hindoo  woman  to  her  faithless  lord: 

"Hadst  thou  not  called  it  Love — I  had  called  it  a 
drawn  sword!" 

A  little  way  off  a  native  boy,  whom  I  had  noticed 
24 


370  The  Claw 

about  the  place  the  last  day  or  two,  was  sitting  in 
the  sunshine,  with  his  back  against  a  hut.  He  wore 
a  brick-red  blanket  sewn  with  large  blue  beads, 
swathed  round  him  rather  gracefully,  and  a  neck- 
lace of  some  wild  beasts'  teeth  about  his  neck.  He 
was  better  looking  than  the  average  kaffir — nose 
less  flat,  and  lips  less  protruding;  with  a  dreamy, 
moody  air  about  him,  and  in  his  big  dark  eyes.  He 
had  a  tiny  kaffir  instrument  in  his  hands,  upon 
which  he  was  making  a  soft,  sad,  monotonous 
sound. 

Tom — brr — torn — brr — tom-tom-torn — 

Sometimes  he  would  give  a  look,  in  which  there 
seemed  to  be  some  significant  wistfulness,  towards 
the  verandah  where  we  sat. 

"Yes,  I  've  got  a  nice  little  soft  billet  in  the 
Mounted  Police, ' '  pursued  Maurice  serenely.  ' '  The 
powers  that  be  thought  it  a  pity  for  a  happily 
married  man  like  me,  with  an  adoring  wife,  to  have 
to  be  so  much  away  from  home  as  an  N.  C.  must 
be,  so  they  laid  their  heads  together  to  see  what 
they  could  do  for  you  and  me.  The  result 
is  the  offer  of  a  sub-inspectorship  in  the  Police, 
my  service  in  the  N.C.  Department  to  count  to- 
wards seniority.  They  've  given  me  the  camp  at 
Mgatweli." 

Afterwards  I  learnt,  as  one  learns  everything  in 
Rhodesia  if  one  lives  long  enough,  that  the  whole 
affair  had  been  arranged  weeks  before,  upon 
Maurice  announcing  the  news  of  his  approaching 
marriage.  He  had  accepted  the  appointment 


What  a  Goad  Performed          371 

quite  a  month  before  he  told  me  anything  about  it. 

But  I  soon  learned  that  I  must  take  falseness 
and  double-dealing  for  granted. 

Judy,  too,  was  proving  faithless  to  her  promise. 
She  had  written  to  say  that  she  had  decided  to 
take  Dickie  with  her  to  Europe,  where  she  was 
going  to  spend  her  honeymoon. 

I  rose  wearily  to  go  inside  and  find  out  what 
arrangements  were  being  made  for  lunch,  when  I 
noticed  that  the  boy  with  the  music  had  left  off 
playing.  He  put  his  piano  in  his  hair  and  came  up 
to  the  verandah.  His  eyes  were  fixed  wistfully 
upon  Maurice,  who  was  apparently  composing 
himself  to  sleep.  In  the  Mashona  tongue  he  made 
a  soft  little  request  : 

"  Neega  meena  e'tambo  Inkos." 

My  husband  very  quickly  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Get  out,  you  scoundrel,  or  I  '11  give  you  a  kick- 
ing instead.  And  don't  let  me  see  you  hanging 
round  here  any  longer."  He  added  something. 
Some  added  threat  in  the  vernacular  made  the 
boy  walk  away.  But  he  did  not  leave  the  farm. 
I  found  out  later  that  he  was  Makupi,  the  boy 
whose  charm  Maurice  would  not  give  up,  keeping  it 
out  of  sheer  deviltry  and  malice,  just  because  the 
boy  wanted  it  so  frightfully.  When  we  left 
Water-lily  Farm  Makupi  left  also,  and  a  few  days 
after  our  arrival  at  our  new  home  I  saw  his  brick- 
red  blanket  again,  and  heard  the  thrumming  of 
the  little  melancholy  piano.  Often  he  would 
come  to  Maurice  and  repeat  his  gentle  request : 


372  The  Claw 

"  Neega  meena  e'tambo  Inkos"(g\ve  me  my  charm, 
master).  And  when  refused  with  menaces  would 
walk  uncomplainingly  away. 

Mgatweli  was  a  little  gathering  of  houses  and 
huts,  a  church,  and  two  hotels — the  habitations  of 
three  hundred  souls.  The  town  nestled  in  the  hol- 
low of  a  plain,  with  low,  wooded  kopjes  brooding 
round  it. 

Our  home  consisted  of  five  huts :  a  dining-room 
lined  with  white  limbo,  a  drawing-room  lined 
with  red,  two  bedrooms,  and  a  kitchen.  They 
had  been  lived  in  before,  and  left  in  a  ragged 
and  disreputable  condition.  There  was  grass 
growing  on  my  bedroom  floor,  and  the  ants 
had  devoured  most  of  the  drawing-room  wall 
drapery.  However,  the  place  was  undeniably 
picturesque. 

The  huts  were  built  in  a  wide  ring  round  a 
compound  full  of  bush  and  big  trees,  and  the  whole 
camp  was  pitched  half-way  up  the  slope  of  the 
biggest  kop. 

We  were  about  a  mile  away  from  the  town,  and 
between  us  and  it  stretched  an  emblazoned  sea — 

* 

an  extravagant,  brilliant  champs  Elysee  of  terrible 
colour. 

In  the  first  mushroom  uprising  of  the  town  the 
little  hospital  had  stood  where  now  our  huts  were 
built,  and  a  young  nurse,  receiving  a  packet  of 
zinia  seed  from  home,  had,  in  the  innocence  of  her 
heart,  planted  it  at  the  doors  of  the  hospital,  to 


What  a  Goad  Performed          373 

cheer  the  patients,  she  said;  but  in  time  it  had 
frightened  the  patients. 

Any  one  who  knows  anything  about  zinias  need 
not  be  told  that  they  want  nothing  more  than 
a  shower  and  some  sunny  days  to  bloom  gaily, 
and  thereafter  fling  their  seed  in  turn  to  the 
four  winds.  That  is  what  Nurse  Agnes's  zinias 
had  done,  and  now  between  the  camp  and  the 
town  billowed  an  iridescent  ocean  of  colour.  And 
such  colour!  Atrocious  blues  and  reds  and 
terra-cottas  and  pinks  and  magentas,  all  cheek 
by  jowl,  and  head  to  head.  Perky  little  stiff- 
stalked  wretches,  blazing  wickedly  in  the  sun. 
I  detested  them.  The  natural  flowers  of  Africa 
never  clash  with  each  other,  or  the  skies,  or  the 
changing  scarlets  and  ambers  of  the  veldt.  But 
these  malapert  immigrants  sinned  against  all  laws 
and  canons  of  colour.  They  struck  the  eye  a 
thousand  blows  a  minute.  They  disturbed  the 
splendour  of  the  skies.  There  was  no  peace  in 
the  distant  hills  because  of  them. 

Close  beside  us  was  the  police  camp:  a  bevy 
of  huts  built  round  a  large  open  space>  with  the 
stumps  of  chopped-down  trees  for  occasional  seats. 
A  sergeant  and  ten  troopers  came  and  went  on 
the  zinia-lined  road,  patrolling  the  neighbour- 
ing kraals  and  visiting  the  town.  From  our  hut 
doors  we  could  see  the  men  busy  with  their  horses 
at  morning  and  evening  "stables,"  and  on  Sunday 
nights  they  usually  chanted  Barrack-room  Ballads 
round  their  fires  to  hymn  tunes  played  on  a 


374  The  Claw 

concertina.  They  were  an  ill-kempt,  casual,  care- 
less lot  of  men,  but  fine  looking  fellows  and  all  of 
them  well-born  ne'er-do-wells.  The  only  one 
among  them  who  had  no  claim  by  birth  to  the 
title  of  gentleman  was  Locke,  the  smart  and 
spruce  sergeant  in  charge  of  them  under  Maurice. 

Life  with  Maurice  Stair  was  too  lively  and  active 
a  misery  to  be  truthfully  described  as  dreary. 
It  was  more  difficult  than  climbing  the  Dent 
blanche  with  bare  and  broken  feet,  or  wandering 
waterless  in  the  burning  desert;  for  there  was  no 
glorious  peak  in  sight  up  the  steep  and  rugged 
path,  nor  any  oases  to  rest  by  in  the  weary  desert, 
nor  any  hope  of  "Death,  the  tardy  friend"  over- 
taking one's  faltering  footsteps.  I  was  too  young 
and  strong  to  hope  for  death,  even  while  I  felt  that 
youth  was  being  left  far  behind  in  the  shadow 
of  happier  days,  and  age  crouched  somewhere  in 
the  tangled  thorny  wild  in  front.  And  always, 
always,  the  terrible  regret  for  the  passing  of  days 
that  held  nothing  in  them!  Empty  days — empty 
nights!  Life  was  not  meant  to  be  passed  thus, 
and  life  was  passing! 

"The  wine  of  life  was  falling  drop  by  drop; 
The  leaves  of  life  were  fading  one  by  onel" 

Maurice  spent  little  of  his  time  at  the  police 
camp.  His  duties  as  commanding  officer  did  not 
oppress  him.  He  rarely  went  near  his  men. 


What  a  Goad  Performed         375 

The  sergeant  came  to  the  house  with  all  papers 
and  reports,  and  Maurice  conducted  the  affairs 
of  the  Government  in  his  bedroom,  often  from  his 
bed,  for  which  he  had  a  fondness. 

As  Public  Prosecutor  he  was  obliged  to  go  over 
to  the  court-house  every  morning  at  ten,  but  it 
was  usually  nearer  eleven  when  he  rode  away, 
looking  like  a  modern  Galahad  on  his  white  horse. 
There  is  no  doubt  he  was  a  very  handsome  fellow. 

His  duties  at  the  court-house  did  not  keep  him 
long,  there  being  little  more  to  do  than  to  produce 
certain  Mashonas  who  had  been  brought  in  by 
the  troopers  for  refusing  to  pay  the  hut-tax  (ten 
shillings  a  year)  and  thereafter  to  be  sentenced  to  a 
month's  labour  at  Government  work.  Sometimes 
there  was  a  cattle-stealer  to  face  his  crimes,  or  a 
breaker  of  his  brother's  skull  in  some  kraal  revel. 
Whatsoever  the  cases  they  did  not  detain  Maurice 
long.  He  soon  came  riding  gallantly  back  through 
the  zinias,  to  the  hours  of  idleness  that  his  soul 
loved.  He  would  fling  off  his  uniform,  get  into  a 
pair  of  shrunken  flannel  trousers,  and  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  and  a  pair  of  atrocious  black  leather 
slippers  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  pottering.  He 
was  the  most  successful  potterer  I  ever  met. 
Sauntering  from  one  hut  to  the  other,  he  was 
never  far  from  his  own.  He  may  or  may  not 
have  believed  that  I  did  not  know  the  reason 
for  this;  but  I  must  have  been  deaf  and  blind 
and  lacking  in  all  my  seven  senses  not  to  know 
of  the  case  after  case  of  whiskey  that  was  carried 


376  The  Claw 

to  his  hut  and  consumed  there  in  solitude.  Yet 
he  still  kept  up  the  pose  of  being  a  man  who 
did  not  drink,  and  when  I  had  the  tantalus  filled 
with  spirits  and  placed  openly  in  the  dining-room 
he  looked  at  me  with  surprise,  and  asked  me 
whether  I  realised  that  whiskey  was  five  pounds 
a  case! 

He  had  the  art  of  wasting  time  brought  to  a  fine 
point.  He  could  sit  for  hours  polishing  some  part 
of  his  saddlery  (that  it  was  his  batman's  business 
to  attend  to) ,  or  spend  the  afternoon  piercing  fresh 
holes  in  a  strap  he  never  intended  to  use,  piercing 
them  beautifully,  with  the  care  of  a  diamond 
cutter  at  the  most  delicate  work,  polishing  them 
afterwards  with  sand-paper.  He  loved  polishing 
as  few  housemaids  do.  The  matter  of  getting  a 
rhino-hide  sjambok  ebony  black  would  happily 
occupy  him  for  many  days,  or  cleaning  a  pipe  that 
he  never  smoked — anything  that  was  futile  and 
foolish  and  useless  and  that  some  one  else  could 
have  done  better! 

He  also  liked  to  make  little  pottering  things  with 
carpenters'  tools.  After  studying  for  the  army  he 
had,  it  appeared,  taken  a  course  at  one  of  the  big 
technical  training  colleges  in  London,  and  had 
there  chosen  to  learn  carpentering.  No  doubt  I 
am  snobbish,  but  I  could  never  quite  understand 
what  a  gentleman  wanted  with  a  knowledge  of 
carpentering.  Probably  Maurice  took  it  up  to 
avoid  being  obliged  to  study  something  that 
would  make  a  demand  on  his  brain.  He  was 


What  a  Goad  Performed         377 

always  very  careful  not  to  overstrain  his  brain  in 
any  way.  However,  the  result  of  this  special 
branch  of  instruction  was  that  he  could  make  nice 
little  boxes  that  would  not  quite  close,  and  wooden 
pegs  that  would  n't  stay  in  the  dagga  walls,  and 
other  things  that  no  one  had  any  earthly  use  for. 

Once,  it  is  true,  he  made  a  beautiful  little  tea- 
table,  a  thing  we  much  required,  for  furniture  was 
still  almost  unobtainable  in  the  wilds  as  we  were, 
and  the  drawing-room  was  but  scantily  furnished. 
But  when  the  table  was  finished  he  spoilt  it  by 
painting  it  a  diabolical  pink  that  made  it  get  up 
and  smite  in  the  eye  everything  in  the  room,  in- 
cluding the  walls  which  were  lined  with  scarlet 
twill.  The  thing  was  impossible.  The  colour  of  a 
stuffed  wolf's  tongue !  But  do  you  think  he  would 
change  it  ?  No.  He  would  have  it  no  other  colour, 
and  he  forced  it  through  the  drawing-room  door, 
tearing  the  limbo  and  smashing  up  pots  of  ferns, 
and  planting  it  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  left 
it  there  whether  I  liked  it  or  not.  I  dispensed  tea 
from  it  to  my  visitors  and  let  them  gauge  my  taste 
by  it  if  they  liked.  What  did  it  matter? 

When  all  his  possessions  had  been  picked  over 
and  polished  and  he  could  for  the  moment  find 
nothing  sufficiently  futile  to  do,  he  would  get  a  pack 
of  cards  and  play  patience,  or  amuse  himself  with 
a  chess-board.  He  never  touched  a  book  or  a  pen, 
or  took  the  slightest  interest  in  the  profession  into 
which  he  had  been  pitch-forked  over  the  heads  of 
better  men  by  a  Government  whose  kindly  idea  at 


378  The  Claw 

that  time  was  to  do  well  by  the  men  who  had  first 
come  into  the  country.  He  appeared  to  have  no 
use  whatever  for  his  head :  but  his  long,  womanish, 
restless  hands  were  everlastingly  occupied. 

His  favourite  seat  was  a  packing  case  under  a 
big  thorn  tree — not  too  far  from  his  bedroom  door ; 
and  there  day  after  day  he  murdered  time. 

If  he  had  possessed  the  easy-going,  warm-hearted, 
beauty-loving  Bohemian  temperament  that  usually 
accompanies  a  lazy  nature,  much  could  have  been 
forgiven  him.  A  gipsy's  heart  and  a  poet's  dreams 
would  have  gone  very  far  towards  compensating 
to  me,  at  least,  for  idleness  and  incompetence.  But 
Maurice  had  no  more  poetry  in  him  than  a  packing- 
case.  And  if  his  soul  had  ever  given  birth  to 
dreams  he  had  long  since  drowned  them  in  whiskey. 
So  far  from  being  easy-going  he  was  extremely 
cantankerous  to  every  one  under  him.  The  serv- 
ants detested  him,  and  his  men  only  tolerated 
him  because  he  left  them  to  their  own  devices. 
As  for  loving  beauty ;  he  never  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  hills  except  to  curse  them  for  cutting  him  off 
from  civilisation.  He  infinitely  preferred  to  see 
his  own  cigarette  smoke  than  to  watch  the  pansy- 
coloured  shadows  flocking  across  the  plains  at  even- 
tide. A  sunset  left  him  cold ;  he  never  saw  a  dawn. 

If  any  one  thinks  I  sat  down  meekly  to  this  life, 
and  to  this  man  they  gravely  err.  I  am  not  of  the 
meek  of  the  earth.  Irish-Americans  rarely  are. 
Moreover,  a  meek  woman  in  the  household  of 
Maurice  Stair  would  have  been  extremely  out  of 


What  a  Goad  Performed          379 

place.  He  would  have  calmly  proceeded  to  wipe 
his  boots  on  her. 

I  was  consumed  with  shame  for  this  man.  I 
looked  upon  him  as  a  cheat;  and  I  knew  the  hu- 
miliation and  shame  of  a  woman  whose  husband 
was  defrauding  his  employers.  I  had  been  long 
enough  in  the  country  to  know  how  hard  the  real 
men,  who  had  ideals,  worked  for  the  country  and 
for  themselves.  I  knew  that  there  were  a  hundred 
things  Maurice  could  have  done  to  improve  his 
men,  the  camp,  and  the  general  state  of  affairs. 
But  he  preferred  to  let  Sergeant  Locke  earn  his 
salary  for  him,  while  he  sat  under  a  thorn  tree  and 
polished  a  strap;  and  I,  his  wife,  shared  the 
salary ! 

At  first,  having  learnt  something  of  his  arrogant, 
stubborn  nature,  I  tried  to  beguile  him  from  his 
ways  with  soft  and  even  flattering  words.  I 
painted  to  him,  with  a  daring  impressionist  hand, 
the  future  that  ought  to  be  his,  clothing  it  in 
mists  of  scarlet  and  gold. 

"  Grind  away  at  your  profession,"  I  invoked  him, 
"and  show  them  you  're  too  good  for  this  little 
hole.  Have  your  men  in  such  a  state  of  efficiency 
that  the  fame  of  them  will  reach  Buluwayo. 
Improve  the  camp.  Get  after  the  kaffirs  and 
make  them  work  at  this  place  so  hard  that  the  next 
time  the  C.  O.  is  here  he  will  cast  an  envious  eye 
on  it  for  one  of  his  pets,  and  you  '11  be  moved 
on  somewhere  else.  Having  shown  your  stamina 
they  won't  dare  to  push  you  in  the  background 


380  The  Claw 

again.    They  '11  have  to  give  you  something  better." 

I  descended  deep  into  flattery,  and  though  to 
my  own  ears  it  sounded  uncommonly  like  irony,  he 
took  it  well.  But  afterwards  he  smiled  at  me,  the 
patient  smile  of  the  great. 

"What's  the  good,  my  dear  girl?  You  don't 
know  this  country.  You  can  work  the  flesh 
off  your  bones  and  nobody  will  thank  you  for 
it.  You  will  never  get  ahead  of  the  Company's 
pets." 

The  old  cry  of  the  idle  and  incompetent, 
whether  in  art,  trade,  or  the  professions — the 
uselessness  of  striving  against  injustice  and  fa- 
vouritism! 

"I  consider  that  they  have  distinctly  petted  you, 
Maurice.  Show  them  that  they  did  well,  and 
you  '11  get  more  petting." 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  be  like  Popper 
in  Salisbury — always  after  the  men  to  see  if  they  Ve 
got  their  putties  on  straight,  and  whether  they  're 
taking  Epsom  salts  and  saying  their  prayers 
regularly." 

"Oh,  Maurice,  you  know  very  well  that  is  not 
what  I  mean." 

"I  don't  think  you  know  what  you  mean. 
You  are  talking  through  your  hat,  my  dear  girl, 
of  things  you  know  absolutely  nothing  about." 

"Perhaps  so,"  I  admitted  with  a  humility 
that  was  far  from  being  natural  to  me.  "But 
I  am  only  making  suggestions.  I  can't  bear 
to  see  you  wasting  your  life.  There  are  such 


What  a  Goad  Performed         381 

a  lot  of  things  you  could  do  in  this  country,  and 
make  a  big  future  out  of.  If  you  could  get  inside 
the  inscrutable  native  mind,  for  instance,  you  who 
know  so  much  about  the  natives  already.  Why 
not  become  an  authority  on  them,  a  master 
of  the  native  tongue  as  no  other  man  in  this 
country  is?  Dear  Maurice,  I  want  to  see  you 
start  carving  that  career  you  told  me  about." 

(I  never  let  him  off  that !)  But  he  was  entirely 
undisturbed. 

"You talk  like  a  book,  my  dear  girl,"  he  affably 
responded.  "  But  I  'd  rather  carve  a  stick.  Less 
trouble.  Go  and  get  into  the  native  mind  your- 
self if  you  think  it  such  a  mighty  interesting  place. 
And  further,  I  wish  you  'd  remember  that  I  warned 
you  on  our  wedding  day  that  I  would  not  have  you 
interfering  with  my  affairs.  I  knew  well  enough 
you  'd  start  this  blither  about  ambition.  I  must 
ask  you  once  and  for  all  to  mind  your  own 
business." 

"It  is  my  business,"  I  said.  "How  dared  you 
ask  me  to  take  a  name  you  did  not  mean  to  do 
something  with?" 

This  was  no  gentle  answer  to  turn  away  wrath,  as 
I  very  well  knew.  But  there  were  moments,  and 
this  was  one  of  them,  when  my  spirit  rebelled 
against  the  embargo  of  submission  I  had  laid  upon 
it.  I  saw  at  last  that  guileful  persuasion  was 
useless.  I  might  as  well  have  tried  to  beguile  a 
wildebeeste  from  the  veldt,  or  a  crocodile  from  the 
green  slime  of  the  Pungwe  River,  as  this  man  from 


382  The  Claw 

the  paths  of  sloth.   But  there  was  still  the  goad  left. 

"Oh,  Alexander  the  Great!  Do  you  remember 
what  he  said  to  the  soldier  he  found  sleeping  at 
his  post?  'Either  honour  your  name,  sir,  or 
change  it!"1 

"Oh!  Bah!  What  do  women  know  of  honour. 
Let  me  alone,  for  God's  sake." 

But  I  would  not  let  him  alone.  Even  when 
his  retorts  were  coarse  and  insulting,  I  persisted. 
It  burned  me  like  an  acid  to  bear  the  name  of 
this  neglecter  of  his  duties :  this  skulker  behind  a 
bush  while  other  men  did  his  work.  I  made  clear 
to  him  that  any  woman  with  a  backbone  de- 
tests the  type  of  man  who  potters  about  the  house 
driving  in  nails  instead  of  getting  out  after  the 
big  things  of  life.  I  gave  him  no  rest  under  his 
thorn  tree. 

I  jeered  at  his  wooden  boxes,  and  made  mock 
of  the  slovenly  troopers  who  passed  upon  the  road 
below  our  camp.  I  jibed  at  his  beloved  shrunken 
white  flannels,  and  let  him  know  I  found  him 
no  object  of  beauty  in  the  black  bath-slippers. 
I  scarified  him,  and  inflicted  many  a  scar  on 
my  own  pride  in  the  process;  and  apparently  he 
remained  invulnerable.  But  sometimes  I  saw  a 
little  colour  creep  into  his  sallow  cheek,  and  knew 
that  an  arrow  had  gone  home.  Until  at  last  one 
day  he  turned  on  me  raging : 

"Good  God!  a  man  had  better  have  married 
a  flaming  sword  than  you !  I  might  as  well  try  to 
sleep  with  vitriol  trickling  over  me!" 


What  a  Goad  Performed          383 

At  that  I  rejoiced:  if  an  emotion  of  mingled 
despair  and  savage  triumph  could  be  described  as 
joy.  And  thereafter  I  gave  him  no  quarter. 
More  than  ever  I  bit  into  him  like  a  steel  blade 
and  flickered  round  him  like  a  flame. 

That  was  the  begining  of  a  new  era.  And  if 
sometimes  the  last  state  of  these  persons  seemed 
worse  than  the  first — I  flamed  and  flickered  on. 

One  thing  was  certain ;  anything  was  better  than 
stagnation  in  a  swamp;  so  I  made  the  swamp  as 
untenantable  as  if  it  were  infested  with  asps. 

However,  departure  from  the  swamp  meant 
departure  also  from  tranquillity.  With  the  mists 
of  idleness  and  the  green  slime  of  sloth,  peace  also 
disappeared.  It  is  true  that  Sergeant  Locke  came 
no  more  to  the  house  with  the  reports ;  no  longer 
paid  the  men  and  harangued  them  vainly  for 
their  sins;  nor  rode  any  more  to  the  court-house 
to  play  deputy  P.  P.  while  his  superior  officer  lay 
in  bed;  nor  performed  any  more  of  the  duties  of 
that  same  superior  officer.  That  was  so  much  to 
the  good.  But  for  amendment  Maurice  took 
toll  of  me  at  home,  retaliating  with  the  mal- 
ice of  a  small-minded  woman,  interfering  in  the 
affairs  of  the  house,  grumbling  at  the  food, 
abusing  the  cook,  and  insulting  me.  Nothing 
pleased  him.  Though  he  was  much  more  at  the 
camp  and  court  than  he  had  ever  been  he  also 
seemed  to  have  more  time  to  be  at  home,  to  fall 
upon  the  cook  and  kick  the  house  boys,  with  the 


384  The  Claw 

result  that  no  sooner  had  I  trained  one  servant 
to  do  his  duties  unsuperintended,  than  he  ran 
away,  and  I  had  to  begin  the  thankless  task  over 
again. 

My  husband  was  a  bad  person  to  keep  house  for 
at  any  time.  One  of  those  men  who  tells  every  one 
he  does  n't  care  what  he  eats  so  long  as  it  is  food ; 
and  then  raises  the  roof  if  he  has  cold  mutton 
daintily  served  with  a  salad  for  lunch,  after  having 
had  it  for  dinner  the  night  before. 

"Damn  it!  is  this  goat  going  to  last  for  ever?" 
he  would  cry  outraged.  "It  must  have  been  a 
blazing  horse.  Did  you  buy  the  whole  four 
quarters  in  the  name  of  God?" 

My  mornings  were  taken  up  with  trying  to 
manufacture  new  dishes,  and  teaching  Mango, 
the  cook,  to  manage  the  sparse  material  at  his 
disposal,  so  that  the  result  might  spell  variety  in 
the  menu. 

I  discovered  that  turning  out  charming  suppers 
in  a  Paris  studio  was  a  very  different  matter  to 
keeping  house  in  a  land  where  goat  and  "bully" 
were  the  foundations  of  life;  fresh  fruit  and  fish 
unheard-of  things;  and  vegetables  luxuries  that 
had  to  be  fetched  on  horseback  from  a  coolie  river- 
garden  several  miles  away,  and  pleaded  and 
bartered  for  at  that. 

Chickens,  of  which  it  took  about  half-a-dozen 
to  make  a  meal,  had  also  to  be  fetched  from  kaffir 
kraals,  and  eggs  had  to  be  ridden  after  (and  some- 
times run  away  from  afterwards). 


What  a  Goad  Performed         385 

I  found,  as  many  a  weary  woman  has  found 
before  me,  that  housekeeping  is  the  most  thankless, 
heart-breaking,  soul-racking  business  in  the  world 
to  those  who  have  not  been  trained  to  it  from  their 
youth  upwards.  But  I  had  to  stick  to  my  job. 
Maurice  having  been  driven  forth  from  his  swamp 
into  the  wilds  had  come  back  with  at  least  two  of 
the  qualities  of  the  king  of  beasts:  an  enormous 
appetite,  and  a  tendency  to  roar  the  house  down. 
My  plain  duty  was  to  appease  him,  and  pray  for 
further  lion-like  attributes  to  develop. 

In  a  small  way  we  were  obliged  to  entertain. 
Maurice's  official  position  demanded  as  much, 
though  it  was  an  obligation  he  was  very  willing  to 
shirk,  preferring  a  quiet,  swamp-like  evening  in  his 
hut  to  the  trouble  of  dressing  for  dinner  and  being 
polite  to  people  for  a  few  hours.  But  my  plans 
for  his  redemption  did  not  include  any  evenings 
off,  and  I  asked  the  necessary  people  to  dine 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  He  had  many  ways  of 
revenging  himself  on  me  for  this.  Sometimes 
he  would  absent  himself  at  the  last  moment, 
leaving  me  to  make  what  excuse  I  was  able 
to  the  guests  for  the  non-appearance  of  the  host 
whom  they  had  probably  seen  lounging  in  his  hut 
door  smoking,  as  they  came  up  the  road.  At 
other  times  after  I  had  made  elaborate  excuses  he 
would  appear  in  his  white  flannel  trousers  and 
shirt  sleeves,  and  without  any  apology  take  his 
seat  at  the  head  of  the  table  where  his  guests  sat 
arrayed  in  the  immaculate  evening  dress  that 

M 


386  The  Claw 

people  buried  in  the  wilds  love  to  assume,  cherish- 
ing the  custom  of  dressing  for  dinner  as  a  symbol 
that  they  are  not  yet  of  the  beasts  of  the  field, 
though  obliged  to  congregate  with  them.  What 
these  people  thought  of  a  host  in  dirty  flannels 
facing  a  hostess  decked  in  a  Paris  gown,  decolletee 
et  tres  chic  (for  if  I  could  not  alter  my  gowns  with 
the  skill  of  a  couturiere  they  at  least  still  bore  the 
cachet  of  Paris)  I  cannot  say.  But  Rhodesians  are 
a  gay-hearted  people  and  would  always  prefer  to 
believe  that  you  mean  to  amuse  rather  than  insult 
them,  and  so,  as  a  flowing  brook  passes  over  a 
jagged  rock,  the  incident  would  be  passed  over 
and  covered  up  with  ripples. 

As  for  me,  I  learned  in  time  to  manage  my 
cheeks  as  well  as  my  gowns,  so  that  they  no 
longer  burned  at  such  contretemps. 

My  method  was  to  not  apologise  in  words  for 
my  husband's  behaviour,  but  by  delicate  implica- 
tion to  let  it  be  understood  that  I  considered  such 
vargaries  perfectly  permissible  to  a  genius — or  a 
fool.  They  may  have  been  in  doubt  (as  I  meant 
them  to  be)  as  to  which  of  the  two  I  considered 
him.  But  Maurice  knew;  and  his  was  the  cheek 
to  burn. 

When  he  insulted  his  guests  over  cards  later  in 
the  evening  I  pursued  the  same  tactics.  I  do  not 
profess  that  I  at  any  time  played  the  role  of  a  gentle 
and  propitiating  houri.  As  I  have  before  re- 
marked, such  a  person  would  have  been  thrown 
away  on  Maurice,  and  very  bad  for  him.  A  man 


What  a  Goad  Performed         387 

with  a  dog  whip  would  have  been  much  more  to 
the  point. 

The  art  of  winning  or  losing  with  equanimity  at 
cards  was  not  one  which  his  ancestors  had  be- 
queathed to  him.  If  he  lost  sixpence  he  also 
lost  his  temper.  If  he  won  he  became  jaunty  and 
facetious  and  tried  to  make  others  lose  their 
tempers  by  jeers  at  their  poor  play.  When  things 
went  very  wrong  with  his  game  he  thought  nothing 
of  taking  advantage  of  being  in  his  own  house  to 
jibe  a  man  about  his  income  or  his  debts  or  any 
private  matter  he  might  happen  to  have  cognisance 
of. 

Once  after  squabbling  outrageously  with  a  man 
over  his  losses  early  in  the  evening,  and  winning 
from  him  later,  he  at  the  end  of  the  game  ostenta- 
tiously tore  up  the  man's  I.  O.  U.  saying  calmly: 

"That 's  all  right  old  man!  I  know  you  can't 
afford  to  lose  it." 

The  man  turned  a  bright  green,  and  everybody 
in  the  room  commenced  to  talk  vivaciously  about 
the  weather.  But  Maurice  smiled  the  triumphant 
smile  of  the  man  who  has  scored. 

It  was  upon  such  occasions  that  I  positively 
detested  him.  When  I  saw  a  man  who  for  the 
sake  of  decency  had  been  calm  under  affliction  all 
the  evening,  smiling  the  set  smile  of  a  gargoyle, 
when  only  the  presence  of  women  prevented  him 
from  getting  up  and  hitting  Maurice  in  the  eye  (as 
I  certainly  should  have  done  in  his  place) ;  when 
I  saw  such  a  man  swallow  some  flagrant  final  insult 


388  The  Claw 

with  an  effort  that  made  him  turn  pale,  I  too 
turned  pale,  and  tasted  aloes.  When  in  my 
bedroom  at  the  end  of  the  evening,  while  they 
were  putting  on  their  wraps,  I  found  myself 
mechanically  muttering  inventions  to  women  as 
pale  as  myself  about  my  husband's  touch  of  fever 
— stroke  of  sun — overwork — strain,  anything  that 
was  not  too  utterly  futile  a  reason  for  outrageous 
behaviour;  the  taste  of  life  was  bitter  in  my 
mouth,  and  I  knew  shame  that  burned  to  the 
bone. 

Those  were  the  nights  when  I  could  have  torn 
out  my  tongue  for  making  vows  before  God  to 
Maurice  Stair;  when  my  soul  was  blotted  with 
hatred;  when  I  drove  the  knives  of  scorn  and 
contempt  into  myself  for  desecrating  my  life, 
and  my  father's  name  by  such  an  alliance. 

On  such  nights  I  dared  not  open  my  lips  to 
Maurice.  I  feared  myself  too  much.  Locked  in 
my  hut  I  would  spend  hours  watching  with  dry 
eyes  the  spectacle  of  pride  writhing  in  the  dust. 
Or  kneeling  before  the  tortured  body  of  Christ 
crucified,  but  not  daring  to  lift  my  face  to  him, 
nor  to  the  lovely  face  of  that  stately  Madonna 
Bouguereau  painted  with  hands  upraised  and  great 
eyes  full  of  sorrow  for  the  fate  of  women;  no 
prayer  would  come  to  my  bitten  lips,  nor  tears 
to  my  scorched  eyes;  but  the  cry  of  the  desolate 
and  the  despairing  was  in  my  heart. 

11 Oh,  Mother  of  Consolation!  .  .  .  Help  of  the 
Afflicted.  .  .  or  a  pro  nobisJ" 


What  a  Goad  Performed          389 

Often  when  dawn,  that  scarlet  witch,  with 
golden  fingers  came  tapping  on  the  canvas  win- 
dows I  would  still  be  kneeling  there,  stiff-limbed, 
my  shoulders  chilled  to  stone  above  my  gown. 
And  after  a  little  while  I  would  open  my  door  and 
go  out  into  the  sweet  wild  morning.  Strange 
that  sometimes  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  pagan 
witch  had  more  healing  in  her  golden  hands 
than  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  herself ;  for  standing 
there  gazing  at  her  rising  from  the  mists  of  the 
hills  like  a  goddess  from  the  incense  on  her  altars, 
I  would  feel  at  last  the  frozen  tears  thawing  in 
my  heart  and  surging  to  my  weary-lidded  eyes. 

There  were  other  hours  when  battles  of  a  dif- 
ferent kind  were  to  be  faced,  not  with  myself  but 
Maurice.  Thrusting  himself  violently  into  my 
hut  he  would  revoke  all  promises  and  trample 
compacts  under  foot,  making  demands  of  me  that 
seemed  to  fill  and  darken  the  room  with  shame: 
transforming  me  into  a  pillar  of  ice  that  could 
utter  no  word  but  one — a  word  that  fell  like  a 
little  cold  icicle  into  space,  re-forming  again  upon 
my  benumbed  lips  to  fall  and  fall  again. 

1 '  No — no — no — no — no — no. ' ' 

There  was  such  a  night  that  ended  at  dawn  with 
an  unspeakable  struggle — scorching  kisses  on  my 
bare  shoulders,  and  a  blow  across  his  lips  that  left 
blood  upon  my  clenched  fist. 

Ah!  those  were  dark  days!  Desperate,  soul- 
deforming  nights ! 


390  The  Claw 

There  was  another  night  when  after  bitter  taunts 
had  been  hurled  like  poisoned  arrows  round  the 
room,  he  tore  the  bed-clothes  and  pillows  from  my 
bed  and  the  gowns  and  hangings  from  the  walls  and 
flung  them  in  heaps  and  tatters  into  the  rain- 
sodden  yard.  When  the  boys  came  in  the  morn- 
ing to  their  work  they  picked  everything  up,  cleaned 
and  dried  them  as  best  they  could,  and  with 
calm,  inscrutable  faces  replaced  them  in  my 
room. 


After  such  incidents  came  intervals  of  days  and 
weeks  in  which  we  never  opened  lips  to  each 
other.  I  moved  about  his  house  like  a  ghost, 
passing  from  hut  to  hut,  arranging  his  meals, 
ordering  his  household,  but  speaking  him  no  word, 
or  if  I  did  getting  none  in  return.  When  we  rode 
together,  because  it  had  become  a  set  habit  to 
mount  our  horses  at  a  certain  hour  every  after- 
noon, we  never  addressed  each  other  except  in  the 
presence  of  other  people  who  might  chance  to 
join  us  in  our  ride. 

One  day  when  we  sat  at  table  and  I  crossed  my- 
self for  grace,  as  I  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
do,  he  found  a  new  jibe  to  throw  at  me. 

"It  makes  me  sick  to  see  you  sitting  there 
tapping  at  yourself  like  an  Irish  peasant!" 

Swiftly  I  found  words  to  requite  him  for  this 
new  outrage.  Until  then  he  had  at  least  left  my 
faith  untainted  by  his  touch. 


What  a  Goad  Performed         391 

"Oh,  Maurice!"  I  said.  "If  you  were  only 
an  Irish  peasant  I  would  wash  your  feet  and  dry 
them  with  my  hair." 

I  spoke  very  softly,  but  my  words  brought  two 
little  streaks  of  red  into  his  cheeks,  as  though  I  had 
flicked  them  there  with  a  whip.  God  forgive  me, 
I  had  developed  a  cruel  tongue;  I  was  no  Angel 
in  the  house:  only  a  sorely  driven  woman.  And 
it  was  true  that  I  would  have  poured  out  gifts 
at  his  feet  if  he  had  only  been  an  Irish  peasant 
with  any  of  the  nobility  of  some  of  the  natures 
that  come  to  birth  in  that  sad  land  of  beauty. 
If  only  he  had  possessed  some  of  the  lovely 
Irish  traits  that  draw  love  as  the  sun  draws  the 
dew — generosity,  a  few  ideals,  a  sweet  thing  or 
two  about  his  heart,  a  little  room  in  it  for  dreams 
and  beauty! 

If  even  his  sins  had  been  big  sins  I  should  have 
felt  some  hope.  Had  everything  he  did  been  of 
the  same  calibre  as  his  coming  to  table  in  his  dirty 
flannels,  offensive  and  discourteous  as  that  action 
was,  I  could  have  forgiven  much.  There  is  hope 
for  the  boldly  offensive  man  who  does  not  care  a 
button  whose  feelings  he  hurts,  or  who  sees  his 
sins.  Such  men  usually  have  the  force  of  character 
to  do  big,  bold,  fine  things  also  to  offset  their  of- 
fences, and  such  men  never  fail  to  bring  women 
to  their  banner;  for  women,  above  all  things,  love 
in  a  man  the  quality  of  bigness. 

But  a  man  who  lies  and  is  a  coward !  who  drinks 
whiskey  in  his  room,  and  afterwards  eats  cloves! 


392  The  Claw 

who  pats  animals  in  public,  and  viciously  kicks 
them  in  private!  whose  wretched  puling  sins  are 
afraid  to  stand  on  their  own  legs  and  assert  them- 
selves as  sins — hiding  behind  doors,  skulking  in  the 
darkness ! 

Oh!  there  were  days  when,  as  we  rode  together 
over  the  short  golden  grass,  I  wished  my  horse 
would  throw  me  and  break  my  neck- — and  did 
not  pray  at  night  for  forgiveness  for  that  sinful 
wish.  In  the  terrible  season  of  drought  that  had 
fallen,  the  source  of  prayer  was  beginning  to  dry 
up  and  fail. 


In  a  letter  from  Judy,  which  came  from  Australia 
this  passage  occurred: 

"  I  hear  that  the  petit  sobriquet  Rhodesians 
have  for  you  since  you  went  to  Mgatweli  is 
'  Ghostie '  Stair.  They  tell  me  you  are  as  gay  and 
witty  as  ever,  and  seem  to  be  extremely  happy  in 
your  marriage,  but  have  become  as  white  and 
spectral  as  a  ghost.  Does  n't  the  place  agree  with 
you?  Dickie  is  flourishing,  and  I  have  got  a 
splendid  German  governess  for  him.  John  is  a 
perfect  Pet." 


CHAPTER  XX 

^ 

WHAT  A  VULTURE  TOLD 

"As  I  came  thro'  the  Desert  thus  it  was — 
As  I  came  thro'  the  Desert." 

FOR  a  reason  that  had  to  do  with  my  intense 
love  for  animals  I  had  steadfastly  refused  to 
have  any  pets,  though  I  had  been  offered  an 
adorable  Irish  terrier  puppy,  a  tame  meerkat  and  a 
baby  monkey. 

But  one  day,  Major  Ringe,  the  magistrate, 
a  big,  fair  man  of  forty  with  innocent  eyes, 
lank  limbs,  and  a  reputation  in  the  Gunners 
for  valour  second  to  none,  brought  me  a  pretty 
little  white  kitten  that  I  could  not  resist. 

It  had  china-blue  eyes  and  other  traces  of 
Persian  ancestry,  but  its  chief  charm  was  its  lovely 
fluffy  playfulness,  and  soft  snowballiness.  It 
seemed  to  me  I  had  never  had  anything  so  sweet 
and  wonderful  in  my  life  since  the  day  Anthony 
Kinsella  left  me.  It  was  like  a  little  blue  and 
white  cloud  dropped  from  the  skies:  it  brought 
back  dreams. 

We  called  it  Snowie,  and  from  the  first  Maurice 
393 


394  The  Claw 

seemed  as  fond  of  it  as  I,  and  insisted  that  Major 
Ringe  had  meant  it  for  him  also.  I  was  only  too 
willing  to  share  it  with  him  if  he  really  cared,  but 
I  was  always  a  little  nervous  for  fear  that  in  some 
sudden  gust  of  rage  he  might  give  the  little  trust- 
ful thing  a  bang.  But  at  other  times,  when  I 
saw  him  fondling  it  with  real  tenderness  in  his 
eyes,  I  reproached  myself,  and  a  piercing  thought 
darted  into  my  mind. 

What  if  I  am  sinning  against  him?  What  if  in 
my  selfishness  and  pride  I  am  wickedly  unjust  to 
him?  Perhaps  if  he  had  a  child  to  love — he 
would  be  different! 

Yet  when  I  thought  of  a  child  of  mine — 
with  Maurice's  eyes  and  Maurice's  ways  —  I 
turned  sick  and  faint,  and  I  flung  the  thought 
out.  But  it  came  back  and  back,  roosting  in 
my  mind,  pecking  at  my  heart  like  a  little  black 
vulture. 

I  let  him  have  the  kitten  to  himself  when  he 
wanted  it,  and  he  would  take  it  away  to  his  room. 
We  got  into  the  way  of  keeping  it  in  turn  to  spend 
the  night  with  us.  But  it  always  preferred  me. 
It  would  escape  from  him  whenever  it  could  and 
come  scampering  back  across  the  yard  to  me;  and 
he  following  it  in  a  rage,  would  grab  it  up  roughly, 
accusing  me  of  feeding  it  in  the  night  to  make  it 
like  me  best ! 

The  nights  I  had  Snowie  I  slept  well,  dream- 
ing I  had  a  child  with  Anthony  Kinsella's 
blue  eyes,  nestling  at  my  heart.  I  often  woke 


What  a  Vulture  Told  395 

crooning  to  it  as  my  old  Irish  nurse  used  to  croon 
to  me: 

"Hush-a,  Hush-a,  Hush-a,  m'babee— 

But  on  the  nights  that  I  had  no  kitten  to  nestle 
against  my  throat,  the  little  black  vulture  kept  me 
company,  staying  with  me  unweariedly,  plucking 
at  my  heart,  asking  little  terrible  questions  to 
which  I  had  no  answer. 

"Do  you  think  Maurice  Stair  also  croons  over 
dream  children  ? — does  he  give  them  the  eyes  of  his 
love  ? — have  they  little  hands  that  fondle  him  ?" 

"  You  have  tried  beguiling,  and  flattering,  and 
scorn,  and  hate — is  there  nothing  else  left  to  try  ?" 

"Is  a  man's  soul  nothing? — what  of  the  little 
smouldering  spark  down  below,  under  the  mud  and 
weights — is  it  still  there  ? — or  have  you  put  it  out  ?" 

"  Who  are  you  to  keep  yourself  so  aloof  and  proud  ? 
— do  you  think  women  have  not  sacrificed  themselves 
before  to-day — better,  nobler  women  than  you?" 

1 '  Yes — but  for  love — for  love — for  love ! "  I  cried, 
and  wept  till  dawn. 


One  night  it  was  raining  terribly  when  Maurice 
got  up  to  leave  the  drawing-room  and  go  across 
to  his  hut.  Lightning  was  streaking  between 
the  trees,  and  great  crashes  of  thunder  seemed  to 
fall  bodily  from  the  skies  and  explode  like  tons  of 
dynamite  amongst  the  kopjes,  echoing  and  de- 
tonating through  the  land. 

It  was  Maurice's  night  for  the  kitten,  but  she 


396  The  Claw 

did  n't  want  to  go.  She  tried  hard  to  get  away 
to  me,  but  he  tucked  her  into  the  pocket  of  his 
mackintosh,  and  only  the  top  of  her  little  fluffy 
face  was  to  be  seen  gazing  at  me  with  appealing 
blue  eyes. 

"  Let  her  stay  for  a  little  while,  Maurice,"  I  said, 
"just  till  the  storm  goes  off  a  little.  I  '11  bring 
her  over  to  your  door  later.  She  's  afraid  of  the 
storm." 

"Nonsense:  the  storm  won't  hurt  her.  Get 
back  into  my  pocket,  you  little  devil." 

But  the  little  devil  only  mewed  the  louder,  and 
tried  the  harder  to  escape,  gazing  at  me  implor- 
ingly. I  turned  away  with  my  eyes  full  of  tears. 
She  was  so  like  a  child  asking  to  be  left  with  its 
mother.  I  knew,  too,  that  I  had  a  wretched  night 
before  me  with  a  black  companion.  I  should  have 
been  glad  of  the  little  furry  thing  snuggling  against 
me.  But  it  was  Maurice's  turn. 

"Good-night!"  I  said  abruptly.  "I  shall  stay 
here  till  the  storm  goes  down.  I  'm  afraid  of  the 
lightning  in  the  trees." 

He  said  good-night,  and  went  out  into  the  storm, 
his  mackintosh  buttoned  round  him,  lantern  in 
hand.  I  stood  watching  in  the  door,  and  heard 
him  stumbling  against  tree  trunks  and  swearing, 
until  he  found  his  hut.  Then  the  door  banged, 
and  light  gleamed  through  his  canvas  windows. 

Presently  when  the  lightning  was  not  quite  so 
vivid,  I  wrapped  myself  up,  and  locking  the 
drawing-room  door  beat  my  way  across  the  com- 


What  a  Vulture  Told  397 

pound  to  my  own  hut.  Though  the  journey  was 
only  a  matter  of  a  few  seconds  I  was  wet  to  the 
skin  when  I  arrived,  and  hastily  throwing  off  my 
clothes  slipped  into  bed.  As  I  put  out  my  light 
I  thought  I  heard  Snowie  mewing  again.  I  was 
very  tired,  and,  contrary  to  my  expectation,  fell 
asleep  very  quickly.  Perhaps  the  vulture  was 
tired  out  too. 

I  dreamed  I  saw  Snowie  backing  away  from  the 
fangs  of  a  wolf  and  crying  piteously.  I  rushed  to 
save  her,  but  the  wolf  already  had  her,  and  was 
mauling  the  life  out  of  her.  Her  screams  were  ter- 
rible— almost  human !  They  woke  me  up.  With 
a  wet  forehead  I  sat  up  in  bed,  listening.  But  I 
could  hear  nothing;  only  bursts  of  thunder,  the 
whip  of  the  rain  on  the  trees,  and  the  swish  and 
ripple  of  little  streams  tearing  down  the  sides  of 
the  hill.  The  storm  had  increased. 

After  awhile  I  lay  down  again,  but  I  could  sleep 
no  more.  The  cries  had  been  so  real  they  haunted 
me.  I  considered  the  matter  of  going  over  to 
Maurice  to  see  if  all  was  well  with  the  kitten.  I 
had  never  entered  his  hut,  only  looked  in  the  door 
daily,  to  see  that  it  was  kept  clean  by  his  boy. 
What  excuse  had  I  to  knock  at  his  door  in  the 
middle  of  the  night?  He  would  probably,  and  with 
every  reason,  be  very  indignant  at  being  waked  up. 
Nevertheless,  I  presently  found  myself  on  the 
floor  groping  for  my  slippers  and  feeling  for  my 
cloak. 

When  I  opened  the  door  a  wild  blast  tore  in, 


398  The  Claw 

lifting  my  cloak  to  the  roof,  and  in  a  moment  the 
front  of  my  night-gown  was  like  a  wet  rag,  and  my 
body  streaming  with  wet.  It  was  no  use  attempt- 
ing to  take  a  light.  I  stumbled  among  the  trees, 
in  the  thick  darkness ;  blinding  lightning  flickered 
across  my  eyeballs  like  liquid  fire,  but  it  showed 
the  way,  and  at  last  I  reached  the  door  I  knew  to 
be  Maurice's  and  battered  on  it.  Silence! 

' '  Maurice !    Maurice ! ' ' 

Silence  again.  Nothing  but  the  flacking  rain 
and  pealing  thunder.  Within,  all  was  darkness  and 
silence;  evidently  Maurice  was  fast  asleep,  and 
Snowie  too.  My  worry  had  been  about  nothing. 
How  foolish  to  be  so  disturbed  by  a  dream,  I 
thought,  as  I  beat  my  way  back,  and  once  more 
sought  my  bed.  Still,  I  was  glad  I  had  gone  and 
set  my  mind  at  rest. 

By  one  of  those  extraordinary  lapses  of  memory 
that  sometimes  occur,  I  woke  in  the  morning  with 
no  recollection  of  the  night's  adventure.  I  had 
slept  it  all  away.  The  only  thought  in  my  mind 
as  I  jumped  out  of  bed  was  that  if  I  did  not  make 
double-quick  time  Maurice  would  be  at  the  break- 
fast table  before  me,  a  thing  I  never  allowed  to 
happen  since  he  had  taken  to  rising  for  breakfast. 
I  flew  through  my  dressing,  and  was  still  five 
minutes  to  the  good  when  I  ran  across  the  yard 
in  the  morning  air  of  a  world  washed,  and  fresh, 
and  glittering  like  crystal. 

To  my  astonishment  Maurice  was  not  only  at 
the  table,  but  had  finished  his  breakfast. 


What  a  Vulture  Told  399 

"But  why  so  early?"  I  cried  in  surprise. 

"I  had  a  message  from  Ringe  to  say  that  he 
wants  me  at  the  court  early." 

As  he  finished  speaking  Mango  entered  to  say 
that  Sergeant  Locke  was  outside,  wanting  to  speak 
to  the  master.  Maurice  rose  hastily,  putting  his 
serviette  to  his  lips,  and  as  he  did  so  I  saw  upon 
the  back  of  his  right  hand  three  long  deep  scratches. 
In  an  instant  he  had  whipped  his  hand  into  his 
pocket.  He  gave  me  a  searching  glance  which 
I  noticed  but  vaguely,  for  at  that  moment  the 
whole  of  my  last  night's  dream  and  adventure  in 
the  rain  had  come  flashing  back,  brought  to  mem- 
ory by  the  sight  of  those  deep  new  scratches  on 
the  back  of  his  hand.  While  I  sat  thinking  I 
heard  Sergeant  Locke's  voice  saying: 

"  Major  Ringe  went  off  at  four  this  morning,  sir, 
with  Mr.  Malcolm — they  got  news  last  night 
of  a  lion  out  at  Intanga.  As  they  rode  by  the 
camp  the  Major  called  me  up  to  ask  you  to  see 
about  Masefield's  boy  at  the  court  this  morning. 
It  is  the  only  case  there  is." 

"All  right,  Locke." 

Then  how  could  Maurice  have  received  a  mes- 
sage from  Ringe?  Why  had  he  got  up  so  early  and 
finished  his  breakfast  before —  What  was  that 
scratch? 

As  these  questions  flashed  one  after  the  other 
through  my  mind,  I  sprang  up  and  ran  to  the  door. 
He  was  just  flicking  the  reins  on  his  horse's  neck 
for  it  to  start.  He  hardly  ever  wore  gloves,  but 


400  The  Claw 

he  had  a  pair  on  this  morning,  and  the  scratch  was 
hidden. 

"Maurice,"  I  cried  out,  "where  is  Snowie?" 

He  turned  on  his  horse  without  stopping  it  and 
regarded  me  with  surprised  eyes. 

"Snowie?" 

"Yes— my  kitten?" 

"Why,  have  n't  you  seen  her  around  the  place 
this  morning?  She  was  in  the  dining-room  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  and  my  heart  nearly  burst  with 
relief.  I  waved  to  him,  gladness  in  my  smile,  and 
ran  back  into  the  dining-room  calling  the  kitten. 
"Snowie — Snowie — Snow — ie." 

Later  I  went  into  the  yard,  and  all  round  the 
huts,  still  calling.  But  she  did  not  come  running 
with  her  little  tail  erect  and  her  little  pink  mouth 
open.  There  was  no  sign  of  her.  I  turned  to  the 
boys,  but  their  faces  were  blank  walls.  No  one 
had  seen  her  that  morning.  I  questioned  Mango. 
He  had  not  noticed  her,  he  said.  Doubtless 
if  the  Inkos  said  so,  she  must  have  been  in  the 
dining-room,  but  he  had  not  happened  to  notice 
her. 

The  other  boys  seemed  to  be  observing  me 
closely,  but  when  I  returned  their  searching  gaze 
they  dropped  their  mysterious  dark  eyes  to  the 
ground,  after  the  manner  of  kaffirs.  None  of  them 
had  seen  Snowie  since  the  evening  before,  when  I 
had  crossed  to  the  drawing-room  with  her  on  my 
shoulder,  after  dinner. 


What  a  Vulture  Told  401 


Maurice  came  home  very  gay  and  hungry 
to  lunch.  He  had  easily  disposed  of  the  one 
case,  he  said;  but  he  and  Clarke,  the  magis- 
trate's clerk,  had  had  a  great  morning  hunting 
a  wild-cat  that  had  taken  refuge  under  the  court- 
house, and  refused  to  budge.  It  was  imperative  to 
get  her  as  she  had  been  after  Clarke's  canaries. 

"At  last  we  smoked  her  out,"  he  related,  "and 
she  came  for  me  like  a  red-hot  devil.  If  I  had  n't 
put  up  my  hand  she  'd  have  had  my  eyes  out. 
Look  what  she  did  to  me." 

He  held  out  for  my  inspection  the  hand  with  the 
long  deep  scratch  I  had  seen  at  the  breakfast 
table!  I  stared  at  it  speechless.  He  withdrew 
it  and  proceeded  with  his  lunch.  Presently  he 
related  to  me  several  bits  of  news  he  had  heard 
in  town  that  morning.  He  was,  for  him,  extra- 
ordinarily talkative. 

"And  who  do  you  think  have  just  arrived  here? 
— the  Valettas.  They  've  taken  that  big  thatched 
place  that  Nathan,  of  the  Royal  Hotel,  has  just 
put  up.  Mrs.  Valetta  is  very  sick — fever  and 
complications — never  been  right  since  Fort 
George,  Valetta  says.  He  's  brought  her  here 
from  their  mine,  to  get  some  good  nursing  before 
he  can  take  her  home." 

I  was  silent  as  the  dead. 

"Valetta  has  struck  it  rich  somewhere  to  the 
north  of  Buluwayo,  and  is  going  home  to  float  a 
company  as  soon  as  his  wife  is  well." 

36 


402  The  Claw 

"Maurice,  Snowie  cannot  be  found.  We  have 
searched  everywhere  for  her." 

He  put  down  his  coffee  cup. 

"But  that  is  strange !  I  tell  you  she  was  in  the 
room  here  when  you  came  in  this  morning.  I  had 
just  given  her  a  piece  of  bacon." 

I  looked  away  from  him.  It  was  not  good  to 
watch  his  eyes  when  he  was  lying.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  saw  something  in  them  black  and  naked 
jibbering  at  me  like  a  satyr. 

"What  made  her  cry  out  last  night — in  your 
hut?" 

"Last  night? — in  my  hut?  She  didn't  stay 
with  me,  you  know.  The  little  brute  was  so  ill- 
tempered  and  vixenish,  and  so  determined  not  to 
stay,  that  I  opened  the  door  and  threw  her 
out  about  half  an  hour  after  I  left  you." 

"Into  the  storm?" 

"Oh,  the  storm!  Pooh!  cats  know  how  to  look 
after  themselves.  She  evidently  did,  for  she  was 
as  lively  as  a  cricket  in  here  this  morning.  What 
are  you  worrying  about,  my  dear  girl?  She  '11 
come  sidling  in  when  it  pleases  her.  She  's  gone 
off  on  a  hunting  trip  like  Ringe.  All  the  cats  in 
this  country  are  more  than  half  wild." 

I  got  up  and  left  the  table,  my  heart  like  a  stone  : 
not  only  for  my  little  snowbally  cat  with  her 
winning  ways,  but  for  myself.  At  that  moment 
I  terribly  hated  life. 

"I  'm  going  to  ride  out  and  see  if  Ringe  got  that 
lion,"  he  called  after  me.  "Will  you  come?" 


What  a  Vulture  Told  403 

"No!" 

I  had  planned  to  go  ferning  that  afternoon  to  a 
creek  near  by.  The  ground  of  my  grotto  was  all 
prepared  for  the  new  plants,  but  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  start.  I  kept  wandering  up  the 
kopje  side,  and  among  the  zinias.  At  last,  as  I 
came  to  the  huts  again,  I  heard  the  boys  wrangling 
outside  the  kitchen. 

Mango  was  a  Zanzibar  boy  and  always  at 
variance  with  the  Mashonas.  Maurice's  servant, 
Sixpence,  a  shrewd-looking  fellow  of  about  seven- 
teen, was  squatting  on  his  haunches  opposite  the 
door,  fiercely  and  monotonously  demanding  soap ; 
some  clothes  lay  beside  him  on  the  ground.  He 
must  go  to  the  river  and  wash,  he  announced.  But 
Mango  replied  that  all  the  washing  was  done  the 
day  before  yesterday,  and  declined  to  hand  out 
soap.  Coffee  was  backing  up  Sixpence,  and 
telling  him  that  as  the  master's  boy  he  had  a 
right  to  ask  for  what  he  wanted,  and  get  it. 
Makupi,  who  in  spite  of  curses  and  blows  was 
quite  one  of  the  domestic  staff,  though  he  never 
did  any  work,  was  turning  over  the  soiled  linen 
with  his  foot  when  I  came  up. 

"But  it  is  not  washing  day,  Sixpence,"  I  ob- 
jected. He  arose  quickly  and  gathered  up  the 
things  he  proposed  to  wash,  muttering  imprecations 
on  Makupi  for  spreading  them  out.  He  rolled 
them  hastily,  but  a  little  too  late,  into  a  ball.  I  had 
seen  what  he  wanted  to  wash — a  suit  of  pale  blue 
pajamas  with  fresh  stains  of  blood  all  over  them. 


404  The  Claw 

"The  master  told  me  I  must  go  and  wash  to-day, 
he  repeated  sullenly. 

"Give  him  soap,  Mango,"  I  said  dully  and 
walked  away.  It  was  no  use  looking  for  Snowie 
any  longer! 


For  three  days  I  did  not  speak  to  Maurice.  I 
saw  to  his  house  and  food,  but  I  would  not  sit  at 
meals  with  him,  and  I  would  not  speak  to  him. 
He  bore  all  with  a  cheerful  air.  I  often  heard 
him  whistling.  On  the  third  day  he  wrote  a  note 
and  sent  it  to  my  hut  by  Sixpence: 

Would  I  be  so  extremely  kind  and  conde- 
scending as  to  grace  his  table  that  evening?  A 
rather  important  man  from  Salisbury  was  in, 
and  coming  to  dinner.  Of  course  I  was  full  of 
imaginary  grievances  against  him  (the  writer)  but 
perhaps  for  the  sake  of  appearances  I  would  be 
so  exceedingly  gracious  as  to  forget  them  for 
an  hour  or  two.  He  had  not  the  slightest  objec- 
tion to  my  going  back  to  my  sulks  afterwards. — 
Mine  effusively, 

Maurice  Stair. 

I  arranged  a  good  menu  with  Mango,  decorated 
the  table,  and  was  ready  to  receive  his  guest. 
Dinner  passed  as  smoothly  and  pleasantly  as  a 
deep  river  may  glide  over  dark  unthinkable 
things. 

Just  as  the  boys  were  putting  the  dessert  upon 
the  table  I  felt  something  against  my  skirt.  I 


What  a  Vulture  Told  405 

pushed  back  my  chair  and  looked  down.  Snowie 
had  come  home. 

With  a  cry  I  caught  her  up  and  put  her  on  the 
table  before  me.  The  next  cry  came  from  the 
guest. 

"My  God! — the  fiend  who  did  that  ought  to 
be — hanged!" 

There  was  a  silence  that  the  kitten  tried  to  break. 
She  essayed  to  mew,  almost  as  if  she  had  some- 
thing to  tell;  but  no  sound  came  from  the  broken 
jaws  gummed  together  with  matter  and  dried  blood. 
One  blue  eye  gazed  dully  round,  the  other  was 
battered  into  her  head  like  a  crushed  turquoise. 
Every  paw  but  one  was  broken ;  they  trailed  behind 
her,  and  her  body  waggled  strangely  from  an  in- 
jured spine.  I  was  afraid  to  take  the  little 
mangled  body  to  my  breast  for  fear  of  what  fresh 
pain  I  might  cause  it.  I  thought  I  heard  it  moan- 
ing like  a  woman:  yet  its  mouth  did  not  move. 

"Hanging  would  be  too  good  for  the  brute — 
brandy,  Stair — your  wife  is  fainting." 

"No — no;  milk — bring  warm  milk  for  my  baby 
— it  has  Anthony's  eyes — my  poor  little  white 
baby — all  broken " 

The  moaning  that  did  not  come  from  Snowie 
filled  the  room. 

"  No  use  giving  the  poor  little  beggar  milk,  Mrs. 
Stair — it  is  dying — better  to  put  it  out  of  its 
misery  at  once — drink  this  brandy,  will  you — got 
any  poison  in  the  house,  Stair?" 

"Yes." 


406  The  Claw 

The  man  took  the  kitten  from  me  and  went 
from  the  room,  and  I  followed;  but  as  I  passed 
Maurice  Stair  I  whispered  three  words  at  him, 
with  terrible  eyes: 

11  Take  it  then!" 

I  had  suffered  too  much. 


As  I  entered  my  hut  the  silver  travelling-clock 
that  had  come  with  me  to  Africa  struck  three  clear 
notes  from  my  dressing-table. 

Of  all  the  strange  hours  of  my  life  it  had  knelled 
none  more  desperate  than  this !  I  came  in  with  the 
dew  of  the  night  on  my  face,  dust  and  dead  leaves 
hanging  to  my  white  satin  gown,  some  little  stains 
of  blood  upon  the  bodice,  an  ashen-blue  flower 
in  my  hand.  My  nails  were  full  of  earth.  I  had 
dug  a  grave  with  my  hands  for  Snowie,  and  buried 
her  among  the  zinias. 

The  hut  seemed  strange  to  me.  I  found  my- 
self looking  round  it  as  if  I  had  never  seen  it 
before — or  should  never  see  it  again.  On  the 
little  altar  the  veilleuse  flickered  upwards  to  the 
silver  crucifix;  and  from  above,  the  Mother  of 
Consolation  regarded  me  with  grave,  sad  eyes 
that  made  me  afraid  of  my  purpose.  I  turned 
away  and  opened  a  dispatch-box  on  my  dressing- 
table,  and  took  from  it  the  revolver  I  had  brought 
to  Rhodesia. 

One  little  bullet  lay  snug,  waiting  to  be  sent  on 
its  message. 


What  a  Vulture  Told  407 

I  stared  at  it,  pondering  on  the  power  of  such  a 
tiny  thing  to  force  open  the  great  sealed  gates  of 
Death!  So  small  and  insignificant,  yet  with 
surer,  swifter  power  than  anything  that  lived 
or  breathed  to  send  one  swiftly  beyond  the  stars, 
beyond  the  dawn,  beyond  the  eternal  hills!  I 
should  know  at  last  what  fate  was  i  Anthony 
Kinsella's — but  I  dared  not  look  behind  me  to 
where  the  veilleuse  gleamed  on  the  drooping  head 
of  Christ  who  died  for  sinners. 


A  shadow  fell  across  my  hands  as  they  mused 
upon  the  polished  barrels,  and  in  a  moment  the 
room  seemed  darker ;  the  air  grew  bitter  to  breathe 
when  I  knew  that  Maurice  Stair  was  sharing  it 
with  me.  I  looked  in  the  mirror  and  saw  his 
face. 

"What  do  you  want — murderer?" 

"I  want  to  die,  Deirdre — I  am  not  fit  to  live — 
kill  me." 

"There  is  rat  poison  in  the  house,"  I  said,  and 
saw  my  lips  curving  in  the  bitter  gleaming  smile 
of  a  Medusa  as  he  blenched  and  shook  under  my 
words. 

"My  God! — you  are  cruel — crueller  than  death. 
It  costs  more  to  stand  here  and  face  you  than  to 
go  and  die  like  a  rat  in  a  hole.  You  are  right,  it  is 
the  only  death  I  am  fit  for — but  speak  to  me  first, 
Deirdre — give  me  one  kind  word — just  one  word." 

"Words! — what  do  they  do  for  you?    A  hund- 


408  The  Claw 

redth  part  of  the"words  I  have  flung  at  you  in  my 
misery  would  have  put  manhood  into  a  baboon, 
and  driven  a  real  man  mad  with  shame — but 
you! " 

"I  know — I  am  a  coward,  a  skunk,  a  liar,  a 
drunkard.  I  will  die  to-night  if  it  will  please  you. ' ' 

"Nothing  you  can  do  will  please  me." 

"My  God! — let  me  tell  you  how  it  happened, — 
she  scratched  my  hand  trying  to  get  away  to  you, 
and  I  went  mad  for  a  few  moments — for  a  few 
moments  I  saw  red — before  God  I  did  not  know 
what  I  was  doing — afterwards  I  saw  her  lying  on 
the  ground  all  battered  to  bits,  and  found  the 
bloody  boot- jack  in  my  hand " 

"Ah!" 

"Oh,  God!  don't  look  at  me  like  that — I  never 
meant  it,  Deirdre — I  swear  I  never  meant  it — I 
put  her  outside — she  must  have  crept  away  into 
the  bush  to  die." 

"She  lay  there  three  days  suffering  the  hells  of 
hunger  and  thirst  and  wounds — too  broken  to 
crawl  home — while  you  whistled,  and  lied !  Maurice 
Stair  you  are  an  unspeakable  brute.  Be  very  sure 
you  will  answer  to  God  for  this." 

I  threw  down  my  revolver,  and  turned  on  him 
the  implacable  Medusa  face  of  the  stone  image  in 
the  mirror. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  die  to-night,  then  I  will  not. 
Your  presence  would  poison  the  very  valley  of 
death  for  me." 

"You   meant   to   die — you?    Deirdre,  have    I 


What  a  Vulture  Told  409 

brought  you  to  such  a  pass?  Forgive  me — for- 
give me."  He  grovelled  on  the  floor  clutching  at 
my  skirt,  kissing  my  feet,  but  I  thrust  him  away. 

"Forgive  me — I  did  not  mean  to  do  it — some 
madness  entered  into  me — I  loved  the  little  thing, 
Deirdre — I  loved  it — I  used  to  lie  in  the  dark  with 
it  against  my  face,  and  think  it  was  a  little  child— 
your  child." 

Black  vultures  flew  into  the  room  then;  the  air 
was  darkened  with  their  wings.  They  filled  the 
hut  rustling  and  beating.  They  flapped  about  me, 
with  cruel  beaks  plucking  at  my  heart.  Through 
the  trailing  of  their  dusky  wings  I  saw  the  tor- 
tured face  of  the  man  on  the  floor.  And  across 
the  room  the  great  eyes  of  Mary  accused  not 
him,  but  me. 


"Get  up,  Maurice,"  I  said  to  him  at  last.  Now 
that  I  knew  that  the  sweet  rest  and  peace  of  death 
were  not  for  me  a  great  weariness  crept  over  my 
spirit.  "Get  up!  Do  not  kneel  to  me.  You 
make  me  ashamed." 

"Give  me  another  chance,  Deirdre.  May  God 
curse  and  afflict  me  root  and  branch,  if  I  do  not 
change  from  what  I  am.  Give  me  one  more 
chance." 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  while  the  floor 
swayed  under  my  feet. 

"This  is  a  deep,  terrible  pit — we  are  in — Maur- 
ice." I  stammered,  hardly  having  strength  to 


410  The  Claw 

speak.     "We  must  try  and  help  each  other — to 
climb  out  of  it — together." 

Looking  past  him  out  through  the  open  door, 
into  the  grey  weeping  morning  I  saw  a  vista  of 
long  weary  years. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHAT  THE  KNUCKLE-BONE  OF  A  SHEEP  DID 

"The  senses  no  less  than  the  soul  have  their  spiritual  mys- 
teries to  reveal. " 

WE  were  sitting  under  a  mimosa  tree  outside 
the  drawing-room  hut,  elbows  on  the  tea- 
table,  enjoying  the  sunset  lights  and  the  extra- 
ordinary content  that  nothing  so  well  bestows  as 
a  day's  work  well  done. 

It  was  almost  the  end  of  a  February  day,  and 
everywhere  around  us  bloomed  and  flaunted  the 
radiant  tints  of  summer  at  the  full.  In  a  tree 
close  by  a  little  green-breasted  bird  was  singing  a 
passionate  song.  The  sea  of  zinias  still  swayed 
its  multi-coloured  waves  below  us,  but  boundaries 
had  been  set,  and  full-tide  now  only  reached  to 
the  foot  of  the  kopje.  Above  high-water  mark 
Mgatweli  Police  Camp  and  the  home  of  its  com- 
manding officer,  picturesque  still,  but  no  longer 
disreputable,  rose  like  a  Phoenix  from  its  ashes. 

Stubbly  bush  had  been  uprooted  from  charming 
slopes  to  make  place  for  luxuriant  beds  of  tomatoes 

411 


412  The  Claw 

and  Cape  gooseberries;  and  terraces  of  flowers 
already  gave  evidence  of  beauty  and  fragrance 
to  come.  Gnarled  growths  had  disappeared,  and 
big  trees  had  a  clear  space  to  branch  abroad  in 
freedom  and  grace.  A  fine  tennis-court,  the  de- 
light of  every  player  in  the  town,  stretched  its 
gleaming  level  space  near  a  newly  begun  small 
banana  grove. 

Each  of  our  huts  except  the  kitchen  had  now  a 
picturesque  rustic  porch  added  to  it,  round  which 
were  set  plants  of  young  grenadilla — the  best  shady 
creeper  in  Africa,  and  one  that  bears  a  lovely 
purple  passion  flower,  and  most  delicious  fruit. 

The  men's  camp  was  also  enormously  improved. 
A  little  agitation  in  the  right  quarter  had  resulted 
in  a  grant  of  Government  boys  to  build  and 
thatch  a  big  mess  and  club-house.  The  parade 
ground  had  been  enlarged,  and  the  beginning  of  an 
out-door  gym  was  visible.  The  men  had  some- 
thing better  to  do  now  than  loafing  to  town  in  off 
hours,  or  getting  drunk  in  their  huts  out  of 
sheer  boredom  with  life.  There  were  shooting- 
butts  up,  and  regular  hours  for  practice  in  view 
of  putting  forward  a  Bisley  team.  There  was  also 
a  Sports  programme  in  active  rehearsal  for  a 
projected  gymkhana  meeting  in  the  near  future. 
Under  a  smart  officer  full  of  initiative  and  inven- 
tion the  best  bred  wasters  in  the  world  are  bound 
to  "buck  up  and  look  slippy"  and  that  is  what  the 
Mgatweli  troopers  were  very  busily  occupied  in 
doing. 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         413 

In  six  months  Maurice  had  done  wonders ;  and 
the  wonders  had  not  ceased  with  improvements 
at  home  and  in  the  camp.  You  had  only  to  look 
at  him  sitting  there,  neat  and  debonair  in  his  grey 
uniform,  to  recognise  that  fact.  He  had  the  clear 
eye,  healthy  skin,  and  quiet,  firm  air  of  a  man  with 
a  purpose.  Force  of  character  may  be  cumulative, 
and  six  months  may  not  be  a  very  long  time  in 
which  to  accumulate  it.  But  a  will  to  do  well,  and 
a  lovely  climate  to  do  it  in,  is  much ;  and  I  should 
say  the  matter  depended  not  so  much  on  time  as 
on  the  number  and  size  of  the  difficulties  met  and 
overcome.  Six  months  may  not  be  a  long  time  but 
it  is  too  long  to  fight  daily  battles  with  your  vices 
without  getting  results;  and  an  accumulation  of 
results  sat  upon  the  serene  brow  of  Maurice  Stair, 
and  revealed  themselves  in  the  firmness  of  his 
mouth. 

No  more  sealed  wooden  cases  were  surrepti- 
tiously carried  to  his  hut.  He  drank  his  whiskey- 
and-soda  from  his  own  sideboard  like  a  sane  and 
decent  gentleman.  No  more  shirking  and  shelv- 
ing of  duties :  but  rather  a  seeking  of  fresh  ones. 
No  more  sloth  and  skulking  and  petty  sins.  The 
old  vices  and  weaknesses  were  under  foot  at  last. 
He  had  his  heel  on  the  heads  of  them. 

I  know  not  what  upheld  him  in  the  fight ;  what 
secret  dew  refreshed  his  jaded  spirit  in  the 
terrible  struggles  he  must  have  undergone.  Often 
I  saw  him  stumble  and  falter,  and  sometimes  (but 
not  often)  fall  "mauled  to  the  earth."  And  I 


414  The  Claw 

cannot  tell  where  he  found  the  strength  to  "arise 
and  go  on  again" ;  but  he  did.  There  is  little  one 
human  being  can  do  for  another  in 'these  crises 
of  the  soul,  these  fierce  battles  with  old  sins  that 
have  their  roots  in  deep.  They  must  be  fought 
out  alone.  External  aid  is  of  small  use.  But 
what  I  could  I  did.  And  perhaps  it  helped  a  little 
to  let  him  see  that  I  too  was  fighting  and  suffering 
and  striving  to  climb  by  his  side  with  my  hand  in 
his.  But  whatever  the  means  the  result  was  there 
plain  for  all  who  ran  to  read;  and  I  am  bound  to 
admit  that  it  was  so  far  beyond  my  dreams  and 
expectations  that  I  sometimes  found  it  hard  to 
recognise  in  this  new  Maurice,  whose  feet  were  so 
firmly  planted  on  the  upward  slopes,  the  old  Mau- 
rice, my  dark-souled  companion  in  a  deep  and 
dread  ravine. 

Sitting  there  in  the  sunset  glow  he  gave  me 
fresh  proof  of  his  changed  outlook  on  life.  He 
offered  of  his  own  free  will  to  renounce  the 
five  hundred  a  year  Sir  Alexander  Stair  paid 
him  to  live  in  Africa.  A  few  days  before  he 
had  unflinchingly  and  without  preliminaries 
told  me  the  meaning  of  the  income  he  enjoyed 
from  his  uncle. 

"He  pays  me  to  keep  out  of  his  sight.  He  has 
always  despised  me  for  a  rotter.  The  reason  he 
put  a  clincher  on  my  going  into  the  army  was 
because  he  thought  I  'd  disgrace  the  family  name 
there.  It  makes  him  sick  to  think  I  '11  get  the 
title  after  him.  Rather  than  see  me,  and  be 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         415 

reminded  of  the  fact,  he  pays  me  nearly  half  of 
his  income  to  stay  out  here." 

I  said  nothing  at  the  time  beyond  exclaiming 
at  the  arrogant  self-righteousness  that  made  it 
possible  for  a  man  to  condemn  his  only  relative  so 
harshly.  But  I  knew  very  well  that  the  new 
Maurice  felt  the  ignominy  attached  to  such  an 
arrangement,  and  that  his  confession  to  me 
heralded  some  change.  Now  he  volunteered  to 
give  up  the  money,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  leave 
Africa  with  him  for  Australia,  where  an  old  friend 
of  his  father's  had  a  large  ranch  near  Melbourne 
and  had  offered  him  a  sort  of  under-managership 
on  it.  Having  been  out  there  for  several  years 
before  coming  to  Africa,  Maurice  thoroughly 
understood  the  life  and  its  conditions. 

"As  soon  as  I  get  back  to  the  ropes,  after  a  year 
or  so  Broughton  will  offer  me  the  whole  thing  to 
manage.  And  I  know  well  enough  I  'm  able  for 
it  if  you  will  only  go  with  me  and  back  me  up." 

"Of  course  I  will  go,  Maurice,"  I  said  quietly, 
and  we  fell  to  making  plans;  but  I  looked  no 
longer  at  the  sunlit  hills,  and  in  the  thorn  tree  the 
note  of  the  little  green-breasted  robin  had  changed. 
It  seemed  now  to  be  sobbing  its  life  away  in  song. 

"You  see  we  couldn't  go  on  here  at  twenty 
pounds  a  month,  Deirdre.  It  is  impossible. 
Living  in  this  country  is  too  high.  These  billets 
are  n't  meant  for  men  without  private  incomes. 
Later,  when  the  railways  get  up  here,  it  will  be 
different.  But  before  then  we  are  going  to  have 


416  The  Claw 

another  row  with  the  niggers  here,  or  my  name  is 
not  Jack  Robinson.  Then  life  will  be  dearer  than 
ever.  There  's  trouble  brewing  again  with  these 
Matabele  fellows.  Ever  since  the  rinderpest 
broke  out  they  've  been  queer.  They  are  desperate 
with  vexation  at  losing  their  cattle,  and  their 
Umlimo,  a  sort  of  god  or  high  priest  who  lives  in  a 
cave  and  prophesies  to  them  from  the  depths 
of  it — having  carefully  collected  his  information 
first,  by  means  of  spies — tells  them  it  is  the  white 
man  who  is  causing  their  cattle  to  die.  The 
funny  thing  is  that  this  fellow  is  really  the  god 
of  the  Mashonas,  yet  the  Matabele  put  absolute 
faith  in  him.  Old  Loben  used  to  send  and  consult 

him  about  everything 

I  was  not  listening  very  intently  to  Maurice. 
I  was  wondering  whether  it  was.  the  bird's  song 
that  had  suddenly  filled  me  with  despair.  Why 
was  I  not  glad  to  be  escaping  at  last  from  the 
claw  of  the  witch?  Was  it  these  thatched  huts 
that^held  me — because  we  had  made  them  so  charm- 
ing and  homelike  without  and  within?  I  knew 
it  could  not  be.  Places  appealed  to  me,  and  people ; 
houses  and  things  never.  Goods  and  chattels  had 
no  hands  to  hold  me  as  they  do  some  people. 
Of  late  I  had  come  to  think  that  life  under  a  tree 
without  any  accessories  at  all  could  be  very  full 
and  -sweet — if  one  only  shared  the  shade  of  the 
branches  with  the  one  right  person  in  all  the  world. 
Moreover,  the  legend  carved  above  a  door  in  dead 
Fatehpur  had  always  struck  me  as  a  peculiarly 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         417 

appropriate  motto  for  people  whose  lives  were 
cast  in  Africa. 

" Said  Jesus,  to  whom  be  peace,  the  world  is  a 
bridge,  pass  over  it,  but  build  no  house  there" 

As  we  talked,  Makupi  in  his  brick-red  blanket 
passed  down  the  sloping  pathway  towards  the 
zinia-sea,  and  when  he  came  to  its  beach  squatted 
himself  down,  took  his  piano  from  his  hair,  and 
began  his  sombre  beating. 

Tom —  brr —  torn  — brr — torn —  brr — tom-tom-tom- 
brr. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  the  throbbing  of  a 
human  heart  laid  upon  the  stone  altar  of  some 
monstrous  god.  My  eyes  wandered  to  the  hills 
again.  Then  suddenly  I  knew  that  it  was  the 
thought  of  leaving  them  that  rilled  me  with  such 
haunting  despair — the  far-off  Matoppos  that  held 
for  me  some  hidden  mystery,  some  magic  that 
drew  my  eyes  at  dawn,  and  at  setting  of  sun. 
On  moonlit  nights  I  would  often  rise  from  my 
bed  to  gaze  at  them  and  wonder. 

Tom — brr — torn — brr — torn — brr. 

"Call  him  over  here,  Deirdre,"  said  Maurice 
suddenly.  ''Let 's  give  him  back  his  e'tambo" 

Putting  his  hand  into  an  inner  pocket  he  drew 
out  a  small  black  object  and  handed  it  to  me.  It 
was  a  little  bone  taken  from  the  joint  of  a  sheep 
(the  boys  call  them  dolour-ossi,  and  often  play 
with  them).  But  this  one  was  black,  either  with 
age  or  by  some  artificial  process,  and  polished 
until  it  gleamed  like  a  jewel.  On  it  was  traced  in 
a? 


4i8  The  Claw 

spidery  lines  the  profile  of  some  weird  quadruped 
of  the  same  description  as  the  Hottentot  drawings 
on  the  rocks ;  otherwise  there  was  not  the  slightest 
thing  about  it  to  suggest  mystery  or  romance. 
Yet  Makupi  was  eating  his  heart  out  and  growing 
hollow-eyed  for  lack  of  it.  He  wanted  to  go  back 
to  his  kraal  in  Mashonaland,  he  told  me,  but 
would  never  leave  until  he  got  his  e'tambo  back 
from  the  Inkos.  He  had  even  offered  me  some 
mysterious  bribe  if  I  would  steal  it  for  him. 
Something  about  a  mysterious  gold  mine,  no  doubt, 
I  thought,  and  laughed.  But  I  always  wished 
Maurice  would  give  it  to  the  poor  fellow.  Lately 
we  had  become  so  accustomed  to  seeing  him  about 
that  I  think  we  had  almost  forgotten  what  he  was 
there  for. 

But  he  had  not  forgotten.  When  I  called  to  him 
to  come,  that  the  Inkos  had  something  for  him, 
his  thoughts  flew  at  once  to  his  charm,  and  he 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  came  running.  He  guessed 
what  it  was  Maurice  had  hidden  in  his  hand. 

"But  what  about  that  wonderful  secret  you  were 
going  to  tell  me,  Makupi?"  I  laughed.  He 
rolled  his  eager  sad  eyes  at1  me. 

"Give  me  my  e'tambo  first.     You  will  be  glad." 

"Give  it  to  him,  Maurice.  Let  us  be  glad," 
said  I,  still  laughing,  and  suddenly  feeling,  in  spite 
of  my  sad  thoughts  of  the  last  hour,  extraordinarily 
light-hearted  and  happy. 

One  swift  glance  at  the  small  black  bone,  and 
then  Makupi's  lithe  hand  closed  over  it.  He  made 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         419 

a  movement  with  both  hands  over  his  body  and 
hair,  and  then  his  palms  hung  empty  by  his  sides, 
and  we  never  saw  the  charm  again. 

He  looked  at  Maurice  first,  then  his  eyes  came 
to  me  and  rested  there  while  he  spoke  a  brief 
sentence  in  the  pigeon-Makalika  which  he  knew  I 
understood. 

"In  the  cave  of  the  Umlimo  in  the  Matoppos, 
there  is  a  white  man  hidden.  He  wears  blue 
charms  in  his  ears." 

For  one  moment  he  watched  the  paralysing 
effect  of  his  statement,  gazing  at  me  in  astonish- 
ment as  though  he  saw  a  spectre,  and  afterwards 
at  Maurice  who  had  risen  from  his  seat  and 
was  holding  to  the  tree  as  if  for  support.  Then 
his  eager  voice  continued.  He  poured  out  the 
strange  story  now  in  his  own  tongue,  of  which  I 
only  understood  a  word  here  and  there.  But  I 
understood  enough  to  make  the  blood  fly  rustling 
through  my  veins,  leaping  from  my  heart  to  my  ears 
and  cheeks.  When  he  had  spoken  a  few  sentences 
he  made  a  gesture  towards  me  and  waited  for 
Maurice  to  translate.  I  kept  my  eyes  averted 
from  my  husband's. 

"He  says — that  in  the  cave  of  the  Umlimo  a 
white  man  has  been  hidden  and  kept  prisoner  ever 
since  the  Matabele  war — he  is  a  man  whom  a 
party  of  Matabele  warriors  came  upon  just  at 
the  close  of  the  campaign — alone  in  the  bush, 
not  far  from  the  Shangani.  He  was  wounded 
in  the  head,  and  had  gone  raving  mad — was 


420  The  Claw 

singing  and  laughing  when  they  came  upon  him 
—that  is  why  they  did  not  kill  him.  They 
are  afraid  to  kill  the  mad — the  mad  are  sacred. 
They  took  him  prisoner  and  carried  him  to  the 
camp  where  Lobengula  lay  dying." 

Makupi  took  up  the  tale  once  more. 

"He  says — that  the  King  forbade  them  to  kill 
the  man,  but  to  take  him  by  out-of-the-way  routes 
to  the  cave  of  the  Umlimo  who  would  get  wisdom 
from  his  madness,  and  be  able  to  advise  the 
Matabele  how  to  defeat  the  white  men  later,  if 
they  were  beaten  in  the  war.  A  wife  of  Lo- 
bengula who  had  skill  in  sickness  took  charge 
of  him  and  after  the  death  of  the  King  he  was  taken 
by  devious  ways  to  the  Matoppos,  where  he  has 
been  ever  since." 

Maurice  paused  a  minute  moment.  He  seemed 
to  be  suffering.  His  lips  twisted  as  with  some 
agonised  effort  to  produce  words  from  a  lacerated 
throat.  Later,  he  took  up  Makupi 's  tale.  Uncon- 
sciously he  adopted  the  boy's  chanting  tone,  and 
used  the  native  phraseology. 

"He  says — the  wound  in  the  head  took  long  to 
heal — only  in  the  last  few  months  has  wisdom 
fully  returned  to  the  man — and  since  then  the 
Umlimo  keeps  him  in  bonds  for  fear  he  should 
escape  and  tell  of  the  things  he  has  seen  and  heard 
in  the  cave  where  the  Deity  sits  brooding  over 
the  fate  of  Matabeleland  and  Mashonaland. 
They  are  afraid  to  kill  him,  not  only  because 
Lobengula  put  the  command  on  them  not  to,  but 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         421 

because  he  is  a  great  white  man  with  strong  eyes 
that  make  them  afraid  to  strike — he  sits  all  day 
with  his  hands  bound — but  when  the  stars  come 
out  and  on  nights  that  the  moon  shines  he  com- 
mands to  be  taken  out,  and  he  walks  for  many 
hours  among  the  hills." 

Another  swift  flow  of  words  from  Makupi. 

"He  says — that  two  men  of  the  old  Imbezu 
Regiment  are  with  him  always — armed  with  as- 
segai— but  there  are  never  any  horses  near,  and 
they  never  unbind  his  hands.  He  eats  well, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  content — but  his 
eyes  are  looking  always  beyond  the  hills  and 
though  he  pretends  to  be  content  they  see  that 
his  desire  lies  in  Mashonaland." 

When  Makupi's  tale  was  finished  the  sun  was 
gone,  and  nothing  was  left  of  the  sunset  but  a  lit- 
tle red  light  and  one  last  streak  of  gold  that  ling- 
ered between  two  hills.  He  folded  his  hands  upon 
his  breast  and  stood  still  with  his  eyes  drooped 
to  the  ground. 

"Poor  Kinsella!"  said  Maurice  abstractedly, 
almost  like  a  man  speaking  in  his  sleep.  "What 
a  dog's  life — for  nearly  two  years!" 

Like  a  little  codicil  to  a  last  will  and  testament 
Makupi  added  a  few  more  words. 

"This  is  a  very  secret  matter,  and  forbidden  by 
the  Umlimo  to  be  spoken  of  to  any,  under  pain  of 

"  he  made  a  dramatic  gesture  of  stabbing.  "  It 
would  have  been  better  for  me  to  have  told  any 
of  the  secrets  of  the  Matabele  and  the  Makalikas 


422  The  Claw 

than  this.  But  because  the  Inkosizaan  is  like  the 
departed  glory  of  the  Matabeleland,  and  her  hands 
are  kind  and  healing  to  all  she  touches,  I  have 
told." 

"You  have  done  well,"  said  Maurice  firmly. 
He  had  wakened  from  his  dreaminess  now;  "and 
we  '11  take  care  you  don't  suffer  for  it.  But  look 
here,  Makupi,  will  you  go  with  me  to  the  Matoppos 
and  show  me  the  way  to  the  cave  of  the  Umlimo?  " 

Makupi  looked  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"  If  the  Inkosizaan  wishes,  I  will  go  and  show  the 
way,"  he  said.  "But  it  will  not  be  easy  to  over- 
come those  men  of  the  Imbezu  with  their  assegais 
and  stabbing  knives ;  some  of  the  Umlimd's  people 
have  guns  too,  which  they  did  not  give  up  after 
the  war.  We  will  have  to  wait  in  secret  places  of 
the  hills  with  horses  always  ready  to  start,  and 
coming  upon  them  by  surprise  spring  on  the  guard 
and  kill  them,  then  quickly  unbind  the  white  man 
and  ride  away.  But  it  is  hard  to  say  how  long  we 
shall  have  to  wait  hiding  in  the  hills." 

"That 's  nothing.  Be  ready  to  start  the  dawn 
after  to-morrow's  dawn,  Makupi.  Do  not  fail 
me — or  the  Inkosizaan." 

"No,  Inkos." 

He  went  away  with  a  spring  to  his  walk.  I 
turned  to  Maurice  and  spoke  as  steadily  as  I 
could. 

"  Do  you  not  think  you  should  tell  the  Company 
and  have  an  expedition  sent?" 

"  No ! "  he  said  abruptly.     ' '  I  shall  take  Makupi 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         423 

and  go  alone.  They  would  get  wind  of  an  expe- 
dition— you  can't  keep  anything  dark  from  kaffirs 
for  long — and  then  they  would  kill  Kinsella  as  sure 
as  a  gun.  After  holding  him  so  long  they  know 
well  enough  that  some  one  will  have  to  pay  when 
he  is  released,  and  they  '11  think  nothing  of  killing 
him  off  and  denying  that  there  was  ever  any  one 
there  at  all.  We  can't  risk  that.  I  must  go  alone 
and  very  quickly.  There  will  be  nothing  unusual 
in  a  police  inspector  setting  off  alone,  and  they 
will  suspect  nothing.  We  won't  give  them  time 
to  suspect." 

"I  think  you  should  tell  the  Company,"  I  per- 
sisted. There  was  something  terrifying  and  awful 
to  me  in  letting  my  husband  go  off  alone  on 
this  dangerous  mission  to  bring  back  the  man  I 
loved. 

"Of  course  I  shall  tell  the  Company — as  much 
as  is  good  for  them  to  know.  I  must  get  my 
chief  on  the  wire  at  once,  and  get  leave  to  go  off 
on  urgent  secret  inquiry  work.  There  are  any 
amount  of  reasons  to  go  secretly  to  the  kraals, 
now  that  the  natives  are  so  unsettled.  He  '11  be 
glad  enough  to  have  me  visit  the  Matoppo  kraals 
and  see  what  is  going  on —  He  turned  on  me 
suddenly.  "Do  you  grudge  me  this  work  to  do 
for  you?"  he  said  strangely,  and  I  knew  not 
how  to  answer  him,  but  at  last  I  faltered: 

"For  us,  Maurice.  I  think  it  is  splendid  of  you 
to  offer  to  go.  It  will  be  no  child's  play,  but  a 
brave,  big  thing.  Whether  you  succeed  or  not  no 


424  The  Claw 

one  will  be  prouder  of  you  than   I.      It  is  the 
going  that  counts.   But  I  know  you  will  succeed." 
And  indeed  I  had  always  known  that  I  should 
see  Anthony  Kinsella  again  before  I  died. 


Maurice  and  I  were  closer  in  spirit  during  the 
next  few  hours  than  we  had  ever  been.  They 
were  hours  of  unceasing  occupation,  swift  consid- 
eration and  selection. 

There  was  the  route  to  be  planned,  and  where  to 
have  horses  waiting  for  him  on  his  return;  leave 
to  be  got  from  headquarters  and  arrangements 
to  be  made  for  his  absence;  double  arms  to  be 
prepared,  so  that  Anthony  might  be  able  to 
fight  for  himself  if  the  need  arose;  food  for 
two  to  be  prepared  and  packed — medicines  and 
bandages ! 

To  avoid  rousing  the  suspicions  of  any  of  the 
Umlimo's  spies  that  might  be  in  the  town,  Maurice 
decided  to  leave  about  an  hour  after  midnight, 
when  all  the  boys  were  in  their  quarters  asleep. 
Thus  even  speculation  would  be  unaroused. 
Makupi  was  not  to  travel  openly  with  him,  but  to 
meet  him  at  various  given  points,  guide  him,  and 
disappear  again  until  they  reached  the  final 
place  selected  to  hide  in  until  an  opportunity  for 
the  rescue  occurred. 


There  was  little  time  for  reflection  during  those 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         425 

rushing  hours  of  preparation:  but  when  at  last 
all  was  complete  and  ready  for  Maurice's  depart- 
ure within  the  hour,  I  had  that  to  think  on  which 
gave  me  pause. 

Handsome  and  business-like  in  his  khaki  and 
leather,  my  husband  sat  down  at  his  desk  to  put 
in  order  some  papers  dealing  with  the  police  work 
during  his  absence.  It  would  only  take  him  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  he  told  me,  then  there 
would  be  time  for  a  last  talk  together  before  his 
horse  came  round. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  room  then?"  I  said  in 
a  low  voice,  and  swiftly  left  him. 

Strange  thoughts  were  mine  as  I  stood  at  my 
dressing-table,  combing  my  hair  with  shaking 
hands,  until  the  little  short  curls  lay  like  wall- 
flower petals  on  my  forehead,  and  my  ghost- 
like face  was  framed  in  waves  of  bronze.  Yes, 
my  face  was  ghostlike.  I  was  obliged  to  take 
some  powered  rouge  and  introduce  a  subtle  pale 
rose  flush  to  the  faint  hollows  of  my  cheeks,  and 
with  a  little  camel's-hair  brush  to  outline  care- 
fully the  curve  of  my  white  lips  with  liquid 
crimson.  It  was  a  difficult  process  for  there  was 
a  mist  before  my  eyes,  and  my  hand  trembled  so 
much  that  I  sometimes  made  a  false  line  and  had 
to  wipe  all  out  and  begin  again.  For  it  would 
not  do  to  let  Maurice  see  that  I  had  had  recourse 
to  make-up.  His  eyes  were  strangely  keen  those 
days,  and  his  vision  clear,  like  his  skin.  I  won- 
dered would  he  notice  the  look  in  my  eyes.  Within 


426  The  Claw 

the  next  hour  I  must  veil  them  often  with  my 
lashes  lest  they  betray  me. 

When  all  was  finished  I  was  very  charming  to 
look  at:  a  slim,  subtle-looking  woman,  with  bronze 
hair  and  a  curved  mouth,  bare  armed  and  white 
bosomed,  in  a  low  cut  gown  of  black  lace. 

Only  the  strange  shadow  in  my  eyes  could  not 
be  treated  with.  It  looked  out  like  a  desperate 
hunted  thing,  but  it  would  not  come  forth.  I 
knew  it  well.  It  was  the  shadow  of  the  soul  I  had 
given  to  Anthony  Kinsella,  awaiting  affrightedly 
for  the  desolation  I  was  going  to  work  upon  it 
before  Anthony  Kinsella  came  riding  back  into 
my  life  to  claim  it.  It  knew  that  I  was  resolute 
to  sign  and  seal  myself  away  to  Maurice  Stair 
before  that  hour,  and  it  was  sick  unto  death. 

But  the  thing  had  to  be.  I  had  practically 
accepted  it  on  that  sinister  night  six  months  past, 
when  the  black  vultures  swarmed  and  the  eyes  of 
the  Mother  of  Consolation  terribly  accused  me.  It 
had  come  nearer  and  nearer  with  every  fresh  vic- 
tory Maurice  gained  over  his  devils.  I  had  always 
known  there  was  to  be  no  escape.  But,  ah,  God ! 
why  had  I  not  embraced  my  fate  before  this  hour 
in  which  I  knew  that  Anthony  still  dreamed  of  me 
behind  the  hills? 

Maurice  came  in,  forage-cap  in  hand,  riding- 
crop  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  stood  by  me  in  the 
place  where  six  months  before  he  had  cowered,  and 
I  had  spurned  him  with  my  foot.  What  a  different 
man  was  this!  Pride  and  elan  in  his  gait,  and  in 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         427 

the  old  enchanting  smile  upon  his  lips  real  chivalry 
at  last.  I  felt  my  heart  stir  strangely,  as  very 
deliberately  I  put  out  both  my  hands  to  him.  He 
took  them,  kissed  them,  and  lightly  let  them  fall 
again. 

"Well!  Expect  us  back  in  about  a  week, 
Deirdre.  I  shall  not  fail." 

I  stood  looking  at  him  with  my  lids  drooped  a 
little  to  hide  my  eyes.  Why  had  he  let  my  hands 
fall  so  quickly?  My  first  effort  had  gone  astray. 

"No,  you  will  not  fail,  Maurice.  You  and  the 
word  '  failure '  are  never  going  to  have  anything  to 
say  to  each  other  again.  I  am  glad  now  that  you 
are  going  alone,  and  will  have  all  the  honour  and 
glory  of  it  to  yourself.  I  want  people  in  this 
country  to  appreciate  your  courage  before  we 
leave  it." 

I  thought  of  Dr.  Abingdon,  and  the  other  man 
on  the  Salisbury  road.  It  was  odd  what  a  thrill 
of  pride  I  felt  that  all  the  world  would  soon  know 
that  whatever  had  happened  in  the  past,  in  the 
future  none  might  ever  again  call  this  man  coward. 

"Leave  it?"  he  said.  "You  still  hold  to  that 
plan?" 

"Of  course."  I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "Is 
it  not  all  settled?  Did  n't  you  speak  to  your  chief 
about  it  on  the  wire  this  morning  as  you  said  you 
would?" 

"No — I  thought  it  had  better  wait  over — until 
I  came  back  you  know." 

"You  should  have  done  it  at  once,  Maurice.     I 


428  The  Claw 

wanted  to  begin  to  do  things — sorting,  packing, 
arranging  what  we  are  going  to  take  with  us. 
The  delay  about  your  resignation  will  keep  us 
here  months  longer  perhaps.  Will  you  let  me 
write  it  for  you  and  send  it  in  while  you're  away?" 

"Oh!  all  right  then,"  but  his  tone  was  still 
hesitating.  I  turned  on  him  reproachfully.  It 
seemed  hard  to  have  to  be  firm  for  him  as  well  as 
myself. 

"Is  it  that  you  have  changed  your  mind  again — 
after  all  our  plans?" 

"No,  dear — but  I  don't  want  to  fasten  you 
down  to  anything  we  planned.  You  may  want  to 
change." 

1 '  Why  should  I  ?  "  I  asked  quietly.  ' '  Nothing  is 
changed  because  of  this:  except  that  in  our  future 
life  together  we  shall  both  be  the  happier  for 
it." 

He  stood  looking  at  me  with  glad  though  doubt- 
ful eyes  then,  tapping  his  gaiter  with  his  crop.  But 
always  he  stayed  at  a  little  distance,  almost  as 
though  he  feared  I  might  touch  him.  I  went 
over  to  him,  and  put  my  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"That  real  life  you  and  I  are  going  to  live 
presently,  in 

"Some  neater,  sweeter  country, — 
Some  greener,  cleaner  land.  " 

My  voice  gave  a  little  catch  in  my  throat,  but 
I  struggled  on. 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         429 

.  "Life  is  full  of  possibilities  for  us,  Maurice — I 
believe  we  are  going  to  be  very  happy." 

But  he  turned  aside  moodily,  hanging  his  head 
a  little.  I  had  not  seen  him  look  like  that  for 
many  months. 

"What  is  the  good  of  pretending  to  me,  Deirdre? 
I  have  been  too  bad  a  brute  and  a  devil  to  you — 
and  you  love  Kinsella — I  know  you  can  never  love 
me." 

His  sullen  misery  made  me  take  trembling 
resolution  by  the  throat  and  vacillate  no  longer. 
I  lied  firmly,  though  my  voice  had  a  strange  sound 
in  my  ears. 

"Yes  I  can — I  have  already  begun  to  love  you. 
You  have  shown  yourself  worthy  of  any  woman's 
love,  Maurice,  and  who  am  I?" 

A  cold  hand  gripped  my  heart;  my  soul  cried 
out  to  me  in  its  despair.  He  stared  at  me  amaz- 
edly  for  a  moment,  then  caught  me  by  the  wrists, 
trying  to  look  into  my  eyes.  But  I  dared  not  let 
him  see  that  stricken,  dying  thing. 

"Is  it  true? — do  you  mean  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said  suffocating,  and  sank  half  fainting 
to  my  bed.  He  still  held  my  hands  but  he  came 
no  nearer,  and  for  a  moment  a  gleam  of  light 
radiated  through  the  darkness ;  a  little  radiant  bird 
of  hope  flew  through  my  mind.  Could  it  be  that 
he  no  longer  cared  for  me — that  I  had  killed  desire 
in  him — that  he  would  be  content  to  go  on  for 
ever  as  we  had  lived,  and  never  require  of  me 
this  terrible  immolation  of  body  and  soul?  The 


430  The  Claw 

thought  unsealed  my  closed  eyes,  and  I  looked  at 
him  keenly.  But  what  I  saw  staring  in  his  eyes 
was  not  distaste  nor  hatred,  but  something  no 
woman  wishes  to  see  except  in  the  eyes  of  the  man 
she  adores.  The  hour  for  sacrifice  had  struck.  I 
put  up  my  arms  and  wound  them  round  his  neck. 

"Kiss  me,  Maurice,"  I  whispered,  and  drew  him 
down  beside  me.  He  flung  his  arms  about  me  and 
held  me  tight. 

"Is  it  true?  Do  you  mean  it?  You  are  going 
to  give  yourself  to  me  at  last — at  last?" 

"Yes " 

"When  I  come  back?" 

"No—  '  I  tried  to  say  a  word  that  my  stiff  lips 
refused — "  when  you  will." 

Then  he  kissed  me  at  last :  terrible  kisses  that 
crushed  my  lips  upon  my  clenched  teeth,  bruising 
and  cutting  them;  that  scorched  my  eyes  and  my 
throat. 

"Say  you  love  me,"  he  demanded. 

"Kiss  me,  Maurice — take  me,"  I  cried  in  a 
whispering  voice.  But  something  in  me  was 
dying  a  little  death — hope,  youth,  love,  all  were 
passing.  I  saw  like  a  drowning  woman  all  the 
glory  of  life  depart.  And  in  that  moment  I  real- 
ised a  terrible  thing.  All  was  in  vain.  I  could 
never  love  my  husband.  Something  in  his  touch, 
in  his  nearness,  in  the  scent  of  his  hair  as  he  bent 
over  me,  sent  an  agony  of  revulsion  shuddering 
through  me,  as  though  some  spider  of  which  I  had 
a  peculiar  fear  and  horror  was  creeping  over  me. 


A  Sheep's  Knuckle-Bone         431 

I  knew  not  whether  it  was  of  the  flesh  or  of  the  soul, 
or  a  terrible  mingling  of  both.  I  only  knew  that 
this  piercing  agony  of  the  Magdalene  who  loves 
not  where  she  gives  would  always  be  mine  to  suffer 
as  the  wife  of  Maurice  Stair.  One  other  thing 
I  knew,  too:  I  should  not  long  be  able  to  sustain 
that  agony;  it  would  kill  me.  Almost  I  believed 
myself  dying  then.  My  limbs  turned  to  stone, 
my  veins  seemed  filled  with  lead.  He  might  have 
been  showering  his  passionate  kisses  on  a  marble 
image. 

Perhaps  no  other  woman  in  the  world  would 
have  been  affected  in  that  terrible  way  by  his 
personality:  perhaps  no  other  man  in  the  world 
would  have  inspired  such  a  feeling  in  me.  That  it 
should  be  so  was  my  tragedy — and  his! 

"Why  are  you  so  white?"  he  cried  between  his 
blazing  kisses.  "So  white — like  a  snowdrop? 
Open  your  eyes,  Deirdre — let  me  see  love  in  them." 

"No — no,"  I  cried,  resolute  to  drown,  to  die. 
I  wound  my  stone  arms  round  his  neck  and  drew 
him  close  to  my  cold  face.  But  I  dared  not  open 
my  eyes  for  fear  he  should  see  the  dying  gestures 
of  my  soul. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  He  leaned 
over  me  once  more  and  put  one  more  kiss  like  a 
coal  of  fire  on  my  lips,  then  drew  gently  away 
from  my  arms.  There  was  a  jingle  of  spurs,  the 
tread  of  heavily  booted  feet,  and  presently  the 
sound  of  a  galloping  horse.  I  lay  very  still  where 
he  had  left  me,  my  eyes  still  closed,  my  leaden  arms 


43 2  The  Claw 

where  they  had  fallen  at  my  sides,  the  words  of 
reprieve  ringing  like  little  bells  in  my  brain: 

"I  am  not  worthy — first  I  will  earn  this  gift 
of  you.  Good-bye." 

If  my  soul  (which  was  Anthony  Kinsella's) 
sang  a  chant  of  praise  because  of  respite,  that  other 
physical  me  (which  was  Maurice  Stair's)  had 
heaviness  and  sorrow  because  of  the  knowledge 
that  the  battle  was  all  to  fight  again,  the  agony 
to  re-endure. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHAT   THE   HILLS   HID 

"Life  is  not  a  speculation.  It  is  a  sacrament.  Its  ideal  is 
love.  Its  purification  is  sacrifice." 

"Death  is  a  great  price  to  pay  for  a  red  rose.  But  love  is 
better  than  life." 

BROWN  cotton  stockings  from  Salzar's  General 
Stores  fell  into  holes  before  one  had  worn 
them  twice :  yet  they  cost  four  and  sixpence  a  pair ! 
Almost  as  much  as  spun  silk  ones  at  home,  I  re- 
flected, as  I  sat  mending  mine  under  the  thorn  tree. 
But  was  it  possible  that  I  had  ever  worn  silk  ones? 
Could  it  be  true  that  I  had  once  worn  diamonds 
on  my  garters,  and  done  many  other  absurd 
things!  Had  I  really  ever  been  Deirdre  Saurin, 
the  petted  and  pampered  and  be-jewelled  heiress 
who  had  announced  to  her  mother,  showering 
laughter : 

"Life  shall  never  make  a  tragedy  of  me!" 
I  smiled  a  little  idle  smile,  that  at  least  was  free 
of  regret,  for  the  petted  and  be-jewelled  part  of 
the  story;  but  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  sigh 
for  the  girl  who  came  to  Fort  George  and  was 
scratched  by  all  the  cats,  and  scratched  them 
cheerfully  back.     I  should  like  to  have  been  that 
as  433 


434  The  Claw 

girl  again,  for  half  an  hour,  just  to  see  how  it  felt 
to  be  care-free  and  insouciant,  with  the  whole 
beautiful  world  made  expressly  for  one! 

"  Give  me  again  all  that  was  there, 
Give  me  the  sun  that  shone " 

Ah,  that  hurt !  Better  leave  that — think  of  some- 
thing else  quickly.  How  far  off  those  days  were! 
And  the  people  in  them  all  passed  away  or  passed 
on!  Judy  in  Australia,  happy  with  her  cad. 
Mrs.  Rookwood  settled  in  Johannesburg — George 
had  got  rich  in  the  mining  world  and  was  now  a 
king  of  finance,  and  she  a  leader  of  society. 
Elizabeth  Marriott  was  still  in  England  with  her 
boy;  gold  had  been  discovered  on  her  property  in 
Matabeleland,  and  a  brother  had  come  out  to  look 
after  it  for  her  until  the  boy  was  old  enough  to 
come  into  his  own.  Other  Fort  Georgites  were 
scattered  far  and  wide.  I  heard  sometimes  from 
Colonel  Blow,  in  Buluwayo,  and  Gerry  Deshon  at 
Umtali;  but  people  in  Africa  are  always  too  busy 
with  the  interesting  people  round  them  to  have 
much  time  for  remembering  those  who  have 
passed  on  elsewhere.  Annabel  Cleeve's  husband 
had  died  in  England  a  few  months  after  their 
marriage,  and  left  her  a  rich  widow.  Mrs.  Valetta 
was  still  living  in  Mgatweli. 

I  had  never  been  to  call  on  her,  for  I  made  few 
calls  except  the  official  ones  required  of  me. 
Even  if  I  had  not  heard  that  she  was  too  ill  to 
receive  visitors,  I  could  not  suppose  her  anxious 


What  the  Hills  Hid  435 

to  renew  so  painful  an  acquaintance  as  ours  had 
been.  She  had  never  been  well  since  the  Fort 
George  days,  they  said.  Fever!  Malarial  fever 
covers  a  multitude  of  ills  in  Rhodesia.  Would 
she  get  better  when—  Ah!  that  hurt — think  of 
something  else  quick! 

But  I  could  not  think  of  anything  else  for  long. 
Back,  back,  my  thoughts  came  always  to  that  as 
my  eyes  went  always  back  to  the  hills.  Maurice 
had  been  gone  a  week.  No  news  yet.  But 
sometimes  when  all  was  still  I  seemed  to  hear  the 
beating  of  horse's  feet  over  the  soft  veldt  grass. 

I  missed  Makupi's  red  blanket  against  the  blaze 
of  the  zinias,  where  he  was  wont  to  sit,  expelling 
the  melancholy  of  his  soul  with  the  throb  of  his 
weird  tom-tom,  and  hiding  in  his  heart  through 
all  these  months  a  secret  that  changed  the  face  of 
life  for  three  people ! 

Down  in  the  camp  a  trooper,  sitting  outside  his 
hut,  was  at  the  same  business  as  myself — darning 
his  foot-wear — and  save  for  his  idle  song  there  was 
no  other  sound  to  break  the  hot,  tranquil  silence 
of  the  afternoon.  Along  the  town  road  a  boy  with 
a  letter  held  aloft  in  a  cleft  stick  was  approaching, 
with  the  peculiar  rhythmical  motion  affected  by 
letter-carriers.  Everything  was  very  still.  The 
world  had  a  pregnant,  brooding  look  to  me. 

The  boy  with  the  letter  had  reached  the  camp 
and  given  his  letter  to  the  trooper,  and  the  trooper 
had  given  it  back,  pointing  to  me.  Carefully  the 
boy  replaced  it  in  his  stick,  as  though  he  had  still 


436  The  Claw 

many  miles  to  go,  and  resuming  his  rhythmical 
step  came  up  the  winding  path  to  me. 

I  did  not  know  the  straggly  writing  upon  the 
envelope,  nor  at  first  the  signature  at  the  foot  of 
the  brief  note — Annunciata  Valetta. 

II  Will  you  come  and  see  me.     I  am  too  ill  to  come 
to  you.     I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

At  last  I  realised  that  Nonie  was  short  for  so 
beautiful  a  name  as  Annunciata,  and  that  it  was 
the  woman  I  had  been  thinking  about  who  had 
written  to  me.  It  is  strange  how  often  these  coin- 
cidences occur!  While  the  boy  sat  patiently  on 
his  heels  at  the  door  I  scribbled  a  note  to  say  I 
would  come. 


I  cannot  tell  what  instinct  made  me  beautifully 
arrange  my  hair,  and  put  on  my  loveliest  gown  that 
night.  I  am  very  sure  it  was  not  vanity.  Many 
waters  cannot  drown  love,  but  there  are  fires  in 
life  that  can  burn  out  of  a  woman  the  last  root  of 
vanity;  and  I  had  been  through  those  flames. 
Some  vague  idea  possessed  me,  perhaps,  of  hiding 
from  the  cynical  eyes  of  Nonie  Valetta  the  scars 
the  furnace  had  left  on  me.  I  had  always  felt  it 
to  be  due  to  Maurice,  as  well  as  myself,  to  cover  up 
the  hollowness  of  our  life  from  curious  eyes,  and  I 
think  no  one  had  ever  suspected  what  we  hid 
under  our  pleasant  manner  to  each  other  in 
public.  In  the  last  few  months,  especially,  I 
believe  ours  had  been  cited  as  a  very  happy 


What  the  Hills  Hid  437 

marriage.  But  I  feared  the  probing  glance  of 
Nonie  Valetta. 

I  wore  a  white  silk  gown,  and  threw  about  my 
bare  shoulders,  for  the  night  air  was  dewy,  a  long 
theatre-coat  of  black  satin  that  was  lovelier 
within  than  without,  for  it  was  lined  with  white 
satin,  upon  which  had  been  embroidered,  by  subtle, 
Parisian  fingers,  great  sprays  of  crimson  roses.  So 
skilfully  had  the  work  of  lining  been  done  that 
every  time  I  took  a  step  a  big  red  rose  would  peep 
out  somewhere,  and  if  I  put  out  my  arms  I  seemed 
to  shower  roses.  I  had  designed  it  myself  in  the 
blithe  long  ago.  Betty  used  to  call  it  my  passion- 
ate cloak. 

After  my  marriage  she  had  gone  to  our  various 
homes  and  gathered  up  all  my  belongings — stacks 
of  gowns,  cloaks,  kimonos,  embroideries,  and  laces 
that  I  had  forgotten  I  ever  possessed;  together 
with  pictures,  china,  music,  draperies,  and  curios; 
all  the  things  I  had  collected  in  happy -go-careless 
days  and  thought  little  of,  but  which  were  now 
something  in  the  nature  of  treasure  trove.  She 
had  despatched  them  in  case  upon  case,  and  they 
had  arrived  within  the  last  few  months.  The  huts 
were  crammed  with  odd  and  lovely  things,  and  I 
boasted  a  wardrobe  the  like  of  which  no  other 
woman  in  Rhodesia,  perhaps  in  Africa,  possessed. 
I  had  reason  to  be  thankful  that  my  taste  had 
always  run  to  the  picturesque  rather  than  to  the 
chic.  Most  of  my  gowns  and  all  of  my  wraps 
could  never  go  out  of  fashion,  for  they  had  never 


438  The  Claw 

been  in  it.  They  would  be  useful  and  picturesque 
until  they  fell  into  shreds. 

I  went  down  through  the  zinias,  which  now  I 
did  not  hate  any  longer.  Like  the  hills,  they  had 
become  part  of  my  life.  I  should  take  the  mem- 
ory of  them  to  Australia  with  me,  and  wherever  I 
went  they  would  go  too.  In  the  moonlight  their 
garishness  was  dulled  to  a  uniformity  of  pallor. 
They  looked  like  armies  and  armies  of  little  dreary 
ghosts. 

I  did  not  have  to  ask  the  way  to  the  big  thatched 
house  the  Valettas  had  taken  possession  of.  In 
a  small  town  like  Mgatweli  one  knows  where 
every  one  lives  even  though  one  does  not  visit 
them. 

As  I  came  to  the  deep,  chair-lined  verandah  a 
man  with  the  air  of  one  of  Ouida's  guardsmen 
threw  away  his  cigarette  and  came  forward  looking 
at  me  curiously.  He  seemed  surprised  when  I 
asked  for  Mrs.  Valetta. 

"My  wife?  Yes,  but  she  is  ill,"  he  answered 
hesitatingly,  evidently  knowing  nothing  of  her 
note  to  me. 

"I  heard  so,  and  have  come  to  see  her,"  I  said. 
"She  and  I  knew  each  other  long  ago  in  Fort 
George.  I  am  Mrs.  Stair." 

"Ah!    Will  you  come  in?     I '11  tell  her." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  sitting-room,  and  in  the 
light  gave  me  another  enveloping  stare  full  of  the 
bold  admiration  men  of  a  certain  type  imagine 
appeals  to  women,  not  knowing  that  really  nice 


What  the  Hills  Hid  439 

women  very  much  resent  being  admired  by  the 
wrong  men. 

After  one  glance  at  him  I  tinned  away  a  little 
wearily.  Early  in  a  girl's  life  these  handsome, 
dissolute  faces  have  their  own  special  allure.  But 
I  knew  too  much.  Africa  had  educated  me,  and 
my  mind  asked  for  something  more  in  a  man's 
face  now  than  much  evil  and  a  few  charming 
possibilities  for  good. 

Men  who  have  reached  the  Rubicon  boundary, 
which  lies  between  thirty  and  forty,  should  have 
something  more  than  possibilities  stamped  upon 
their  faces. 

"Is  that  Mrs.  Stair,  Claude?"  a  very  weary 
voice  called  from  the  next  room;  the  weakness, 
the  terrible  slow  lassitude  of  it  horrified  me. 

"Is  she  so  ill?"  I  asked  in  a  low  voice,  after  he 
had  called  back: 

"(Yes:  coming,  dear.)  It  is  only  a  matter  of 
days  with  her  now,"  he  answered  laconically. 

And  when  I  saw  Nonie  Valetta  lying  there, 
her  pallid  hands  plucking  at  the  blue  and  white 
stripes  of  her  coverlet,  I  knew  that  he  had  spoken 
truth.  Her  hours  were  numbered.  Pale  as  ashes, 
she  lay  there  watching  me  with  her  strangely 
coloured  eyes,  the  old  weary  bitter  curve  still  on 
her  lips.  She  too  had  eaten  of  the  aloes  of  life. 

I  took  her  hand,  and  for  a  moment  or  two,  as 
long  as  the  nurse  was  in  the  room,  we  murmured 
the  little  conventional  things  that  always  lie  ready 
on  women's  lips  while  the  eyes  are  probing  deep, 


44°  The  Claw 

deep  for  the  unspoken  things.  But  as  soon  as  we 
were  alone  she  smiled  her  twisted  smile  at  me  and 
said: 

"I  see  why  they  call  you  Ghostie." 

"It  is  very  impertinent  of  them  if  they  do,"  I 
responded,  smiling  a  little  too. 

"But  it  is  true.  You  are  the  ghost  of  your  old 
self  when  you  came  to  Africa.  You  were  very 
lovely  then.  I  knew  the  moment  I  saw  you  that 
my  life  was  over."  I  felt  myself  paling. 

"Do  not  speak  of  those  days.  That  is  past 
grief  and  pain.  We  are  all  much  older  and  wiser 
now." 

"You  do  not  look  a  day  older — only  as 
though  you  had  been  burnt  in  a  fire,  and  there 
is  nothing  but  the  white  ashes  of  you  left.  Yet 
if  anything  you  are  more  beautiful — there  is  some- 
thing about  you  no  man  could  resist — something 
unwon — they  '11  lay  down  their  lives  and  burn  in 
hell  for  the  unwon.  I  am  glad  Tony  Kinsella 
cannot  see  you  to-night  looking  like  a  white  flame 
among  red  roses —  What  are  all  those  red  roses? 
Yes — I  am  glad  he  cannot  see  you  to-night." 

I  put  my  hand  to  my  heart. 

"What  was  it  you  wanted  to  say  to  me?" 
I  asked.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  bear  too 
much. 

"Why  did  you  marry  Maurice  Stair?" 

The  unexpected  question  bewildered  me.  But 
she  was  too  ill  to  be  told  that  my  reason  was  one 
I  would  discuss  with  no  one.  I  said  at  last,  for  I 


What  the  Hills  Hid  441 

had  a  part  to  play  in  life,  and  meant  to  play  it  to 
the  end: 

"He  is  a  good  fellow.     We  are  very  happy." 

"So  I  hear — and  I  want  to  know  how  you  dare 
be  happy — you  whom  Tony  loved — with  a  knave 
like  Maurice  Stair?" 

My  heart  hurt.  Oh!  how  my  heart  hurt.  I 
wanted  to  get  away  from  this  cruel  dying  woman 
whose  pale  hands  dug  up  old  bones  from  their 
graves  and  strewed  them  in  the  path.  I  wished 
to  go,  but  I  could  not.  I  had  to  stand  there 
listening. 

"You  won't  tell  me  why,  but  I  know — it  was 
because  he  persuaded  you  with  a  blue  ear-ring  that 
Tony  Kinsella  was  dead.  Well!  I  want  to  tell 
you  now  that — that  tale  and  that  proof  were 
both  false.  He  never  found  the  ear-ring,  but  had 
it  made  in  Durban  from  a  design  with  which 
I  supplied  him.  I  have  waited  until  you  were 
happy  to  tell  you  this.  It  is  my  revenge  on  you 
for  taking  Tony  Kinsella  from  me." 

Her  hand  picked  at  the  pale  blue  stripes  of  her 
quilt.  I  stood  appalled  at  the  strength  of  hatred 
that  could  reach  out  at  me  from  a  death-bed. 

"Ask  your  husband — ask  your  reformed  char- 
acter whom  you  have  made  a  Sunday-school  boy 
of — and  see  what  he  has  to  say." 

I  had  an  instinct  to  rush  from  the  room,  but  I 
overcame  it. 

"Shall  I  go  now?"  I  asked  presently.  She 
was  staring  at  me  with  her  haunting  eyes. 


442  The  Claw 

"You  are  well-masked — or  can  it  be  possible 
that  you  don't  care! — I  misjudged  you,  then.  I 
thought  you  honoured  honour  in  men  and  women 
above  all  things — Tony  thought  so  too — he  said, 
'she  is  like  a  clear  stream  of  water — and  I  am 
thirsty  for  clean  water.'  Tell  me  if  those  were 
cruel  words  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  a  man  I  had 
loved  and  given  all  to,  Deirdre  Saurin." 

Given  all  to !  Was  this  what  I  had  come  to  hear 
from  the  arid  lips  of  this  cruel  woman!  Was  my 
faith  to  be  shattered  at  last!  But  my  heart 
rejected  the  thought  even  before  she  spoke  again. 

"Given  all  that  was  best  in  me.  He  was  no 
saint,  but  because  in  long  past  days  on  the  Rand 
he  was  Claude  Valetta's  friend  he  would  not  steal 
Claude  Valetta's  wife — charmed  that  wife  never 
so  sweetly,  and  loved  he  never  so  deeply.  For  he 
did  love  me — as  he  never  loved  any  of  the  others 
— and  in  the  end  I  should  have  won — I  saw  the 
day  coming — felt  it  close — when  he  would  have 
taken  me  from  my  wretched  life  to  some  other 
land.  Then  he  went  to  Ireland — and  came  back 
a  changed  man." 

This  again  found  me  gazing  at  her  amazed 
and  bewildered. 

"Ah!"  she  mocked.  "You  think  you  were  the 
first  girl  he  loved — it  is  not  so.  There  was 
a  girl  in  Ireland — a  girl  at  a  ball,  who  first 
dragged  him  from  me." 

"A  girl  at  a  ball " 

"She  took  him  back  to  old  dreams,  he  said — 


What  the  Hills  Hid  443 

her  beauty  and  her  purity — but  he  was  married, 
and  she  was  not — so  he  came  away  quick — he 
went  back  to  his  dreams  on  the  veldt  for  many 
months  after  that.  Poor  Tony !  how  he  loved  a 
woman  he  could  put  in  a  shrine ! — his  trouble  was 
that  they  would  n't  stay  there  when  he  was  about. 
And  the  women  out  of  shrines  had  their  call  for 
him  too. — After  the  girl  in  Ireland  Rhodes  got  him 
for  awhile  with  his  dreams  of  Empire — but  he 
was  coming  straight,  straight  back  to  me — I  knew 
it  from  his  letters,  when  he  met  you — where  did 
he  meet  you? — Oh!  what  brought  your  feet  stray- 
ing out  to  Africa  to  trample  on  my  hopes!" 

What  could  I  say?  I  was  bitterly  sorry  for  her 
and  glad  for  myself — and  broken-hearted  for 
myself!  What  could  I  say?  I  was  silent. 

She  was  lying  back  against  her  pillows  now, 
deadly  pale,  eyes  closed.  I  made  a  step  to  the 
door  to  call  her  nurse,  but  she  detained  me  with 
a  few  more  words  like  shrivelled-up  dry  leaves 
blowing  through  the  room. 

"  His  wife  died  about  six  months  before  you  came 
to  Africa."  Ah!  That  was  something.  Spikenard 
in  that  to  lay  upon  an  old  wound.  A  streak  of 
gold  to  embroider  in  a  banner  of  belief  I  had  al- 
ways waved  in  the  faces  of  those  who  cried  him 
down.  I  would  not  even  thank  her  for  confirming 
my  faith.  She  looked  in  my  face  and  read  my 
thought. 

"Oh!  yes — your  faith  was  great  enough  to  re- 
move the  mountains  he  had  piled  up  round  him- 


444  The  Claw 

self.  You  were  n't  like  Anna  Cleeve  who  thought 
she  adored  him,  yet  at  the  first  word  of  doubt 
failed.  When  I  told  her  of  his  marriage  I  did  not 
know  of  his  wife's  death — he  never  told  me  until 
you  were  in  Fort  George.  He  came  straight  to 
me  when  he  returned  from  the  Transvaal,  and 
told  me,  and  thanked  me  then,  for  my  'kindly 
offices'  with  Anna  Cleeve — for  saving  him  from 
a  woman  who  had  so  tawdry  a  belief  in  the  inher- 
ent decency  of  a  man — but,  he  told  me  too  he 
would  have  no  more  interference — he  had  found 
'a  stream  of  crystal  clear  water' — he  needed  no 
more  'friendly  offices'  of  me.  I  understood  very 
well  what  it  meant  when  I  saw  him  looking  at 
you  on  the  tennis-court.  Good-bye,  Deirdre 
Saurin.  You  and  I  will  not  meet  again." 

I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  be  on  my  knees  be- 
side her  bed.  Perhaps  my  thought  was  to  cry 
some  prayer  for  her  and  myself  and  for  all  women 
who  love;  but  though  many  words  were  in  my 
heart  none  came  to  my  lips.  And  presently  an 
unexpected  thing  happened.  I  felt  a  hand  on 
my  hair,  and  a  voice  most  subtly  different  to 
that  I  had  been  listening  to,  said  brokenly,  and 
softly,  some  words  that  sounded  almost  like  a 
blessing. 

"Why  should  I  mind  that  he  loved  you  best? 
If  I  had  ever  had  a  son  I  should  have  wished  him  to 
love  a  girl  like  you." 


What  the  Hills  Hid  445 

Mr.  Valetta  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  verandah. 
He  said: 

"I  think  I  must  insist  on  seeing  you  home,  Mrs. 
Stair.  There  seems  to  be  some  disturbance  in 
the  town." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know — but  I  have  seen  men 
running  about  in  an  excited  way,  and  there  has 
been  some  cheering.  I  fancy  I  heard  your  husband's 
name.  Is  he  in  the  town  to-night?  At  any  rate 
all  the  ruction  has  moved  over  in  the  direction  of 
the  camp.  Look  at  the  lights  flashing  in  your 
huts." 

I  looked  and  saw:  and  even  as  we  stood  there, 
another  wild  burst  of  cheering  came  echoing 
across  the  open.  Then  I  knew. 

Gathering  up  with  shaking  hands  the  draperies 
of  my  cloak  and  gown  I  prepared  to  speed  my  way 
home  and  to  my  share  of  the  terror  and  beauty  of 
life  waiting  there.  But  before  I  went  I  said  to 
the  husband  of  Nonie  Valetta: 

"  Is  it  true  that  she  is  so  near  death?  " 

"The  doctor  holds  out  no  hope.  It  is  not  so 
much  the  actual  fever,  as  the  complications  that 
have  set  in.  And  her  heart  is  all  to  pieces." 

"Well — let  her  depart  in  peace.  Do  not 
allow  any  news  to  reach  her  that  will  disturb 
her  at  the  last.  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
that." 

"I  promise,  Mrs.  Stair,  solemnly.  Shall  I 
come  with  you?" 


446  The  Claw 

"No,  no.  Go  to  her,"  I  said,  and  sped  away 
on  swift  feet. 

Long  before  I  reached  the  camp  the  cheering 
and  all  sounds  of  exultation  had  ceased,  and  a 
strange  stillness  supervened.  At  the  foot  of  the 
kopje,  trampling  on  the  tennis-court  and  among 
the  zinias,  were  many  men,  their  faces  all  turned 
towards  the  huts,  talking  among  themselves  in 
low  voices.  As  I  passed  by  a  muffled  silent 
figure,  I  caught  a  word  or  two. 

"By  God!  That  dirty  brute  of  an  Umlimo.  .  .  . 
Keeping  a  man  like  Kinsella — all  these  months! 
Nearly  two  years!" 

"The  trouble  with  the  natives  won't  be  long 
coming  now.  .  .  .  Stair  ought  to  get  the  V.  C. 
Who  would  have  thought  he  had  it  in  him!" 

There  was  no  mistake  then — Maurice  had  been 
successful!  But  why  were  these  men  standing 
out  in  the  inhospitable  night?  What  was  going 
on  in  the  silent  brilliantly  lighted  huts?  What 
subtle  note  of  regret  had  my  ears  caught  in  the 
low  spoken  words? 

Dimly,  amidst  the  press  of  overpowering  emo- 
tions that  surged  upon  me,  I  apprehended  that 
something  was  wrong.  Fear  crept  into  me, 
numbing  my  limbs  and  detaining  my  feet:  but 
still  I  stumbled  on  up  the  winding  path. 

There  were  lights  in  all  the  huts,  as  though 
some  one  had  been  searching  in  each.  Doubtless 
Maurice  had  gone  from  one  to  the  other  looking 
for  me.  What  an  ironical  trick  of  Fate  that,  after 


What  the  Hills  Hid  447 

awaiting  him  every  moment  of  every  hour  since 
he  left,  in  the  very  moment  of  his  triumph  I 
should  be  absent! 

There  were  men  in  the  dining-room  hut;  but 
some  instinct  guided  my  feet  to  the  drawing-room, 
through  whose  half-closed  doors  I  heard  the  mur- 
mur of  voices — and  again,  in  the  timbre  of  those 
voices,  came  the  suggestion  of  trouble — pain — loss. 
I  knew  full  well  now  that  something  was  wrong. 
Something  had  gone  hideously  awry :  and  I  feared, 
I  feared! 

At  last  I  found  courage  to  press  open  the  door. 

The  heavy  odour  of  a  drug  came  out  like  a 
presence  to  meet  me,  and  mingling  with  it,  piercing 
through  it  to  my  inmost  senses,  was  some  other 
scent  that  brought  terror  and  dismay.  A  dimness 
came  over  my  eyes,  so  that  I  could  not  distinguish 
any  of  the  faces  about  me.  I  saw  only  the  prone 
figure  lying  against  pillows  on  the  couch  that  had 
been  dragged  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

It  seemed  to  me  there  were  many  red  flowers 
spread  about  that  couch,  and  on  the  doctor's  hands, 
and  on  his  shirt  sleeves.  It  was  the  scent  of  them 
that  had  met  me  at  the  door,  piercing  my  senses — 
the  strange  pungent  scent  of  the  red  flowers  of 
death.  Around  me  in  the  quiet  room  I  heard  some 
curt  words  gently  spoken. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Stair  .  .  .  just  in  time  .  .  .  clear 
the  room  .  .  .  nothing  more  can  be  done." 

"Deirdre," — a  faint  whisper  dragged  my 
leaden  feet  forward,  and  I  went  blindly  towards  the 


448  The  Claw 

couch,  my  arms  outstretched.  The  crimson  roses 
of  my  cloak  joined  all  the  other  crimson  roses 
spread  everywhere. 

All  was  very  still.  No  sound  in  the  room  but 
the  echoes  of  softly  departing  feet,  and  a  laboured, 
puffing  sound  like  the  panting  of  some  far-off  train 
climbing  a  steep  hill.  Yet  there  were  no  trains 
in  Matebeleland.  After  a  little  while  I  knew  that 
the  sound  was  there  beside  me  on  the  couch. 
When  the  mists  cleared  away  from  my  eyes  I 
looked  into  the  face  of  the  dying  man. 

It  was  Maurice. 

He  was  whispering  wordlessly  to  me,  and  look- 
ing up  into  my  eyes  with  his  that  were  full  of 
chivalrous  fires  and  some  other  wondrous  light 
that  had  never  been  in  them  before.  From  his 
lips  came  the  little  panting  laboured  sound. 

Supporting  his  head — pale  and  lean,  but  with 
the  old  intent  strong  glance,  the  little  blue  stones 
in  his  ears,  and  a  great  white  scar  gleaming  along 
his  forehead  back  into  his  hair — was  Anthony 
Kinsella. 

We  took  one  glance  of  each  other,  while  the 
world  rocked  beneath  my  feet.  Then  I  gathered 
my  husband's  head  to  my  breast. 

"Maurice!  Maurice!  This  is  all  wrong— 
what  has  happened?  You  must  not  die!" 

A  smile  of  triumph  lit  his  face.  He  lay  there 
like  a  dying  Galahad  with  the  beauty  of  death 
on  him:  nobler  and  more  gallant  than  he  had 
ever  been  before.  Like  the  sad  music  of  old 


What  the  Hills  Hid  449 

remembered  bells  I  heard  Anthony's  voice  telling 
the  brief  tale. 

"He  put  up  a  splendid  fight  with  those  two 
Imbezu  fellows.  I  could  do  nothing  to  help  until 
he  had  disabled  them  and  unbound  me.  We  got 
clear  away  then,  after  hard  riding.  All  yesterday 
we  travelled  hard,  and  were  certain  no  one  was 
following.  But  this  afternoon,  about  two  hours' 
ride  from  here,  just  as  we  were  moving  on  after 
a  short  'off-saddle,'  a  single  shot  was  fired  from 
behind  a  bush — it  was  meant  for  me  of  course 
— a  last  effort  to  pot  me  before  we  got  in.  But 
—God!  Stair,  what  can  I  say? — You  have  given 
your  life  for  mine!  What  can  I  say — or  do!" 

Triumph  flickered  once  more  across  the  death- 
dewed  face  of  Maurice  Stair;  and  his  pale  half- 
smiling  lips  whispered  faintly  back: 

''That 's  all  right  old  man.  .  .  .  Kiss  me  good- 
bye, Deirdre  .  .  .  I  have  told  him  everything.11 

With  his  hand  in  Anthony's  and  his  head  on 
my  breast  he  died. 

THE  END 


Ji:  Selection  from  the 
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